


Root's Path

by ZenTango



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Bondage, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Masochism, Moderate nerdiness, Root inherited more than just money from her grandmother, Root's origin story, Sexual Content, Spy Intrigue, There's more than one time period going on but that's part of the fun, the usual angst, yummy food
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-06-07 18:10:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 41,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19474582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZenTango/pseuds/ZenTango
Summary: These are the things she carries with her. A laptop. A neatly folded pair of black gloves. A tattered copy of an old children's book, stolen from a yard sale. Risk. Vulnerability. A code she created for herself. And lots of memory.





	1. The Myth of Memory

They say you can't remember much before age five. That's when your brain has made all the appropriate connections that will later allow your memories to be accessed. Like the bits a computer uses to store and count and collate data. Random access. This synapse fired and connected to that tiny neuron and voila! A memory bubbling up. A smell, a touch, a word spoken. A vague, gauzy scene revealed. A sunny day. Lots of hot, sunny, humid days.

But she could remember farther back than that. She remembered being in her crib and waiting for her mother to come and pick her up and hold her. So she must have been younger than three then. There was a vivid picture ingrained in her mind of how her mother looked in those days. She was still young then. Still pretty. Wearing makeup, smiling and fun and vivacious. She remembered sometimes waiting there in her crib in the back bedroom, listening to the sound of her mother in the kitchen, talking, laughing. Being vivacious. Chatting merrily with someone as the radio played in the background. It would be better to be in the kitchen, where the other people were. The best stuff always happened where the other people were.

That was before her mother started getting sick. That's what they called it. Sick. She knew there was probably another word for what happened to her mother during the day, while she was at school. The tall, round bottles that her mother called “medicine” would be sitting empty near the sink, or half-empty on the coffee table when she returned home each afternoon. And her mom, who sometimes didn't even bother getting dressed, would be lounging on the couch, staring at the TV, holding a dirty glass and crushing a cigarette butt into the overflowing ashtray.

“Go outside, Sam,” she'd say, barely turning her head to look at the little blonde girl who'd just stepped inside the door. “Go play. Mommy's not feeling well today.”

So she'd drop her school bag on the floor and go outside to find her friends. And they would play and run around for a bit, and then they'd get too loud and her mom would come to the screen door and yell at them through it. In her young mind, Sam equated the shame and terror of her mother's wrath with the sound of the flimsy metal door banging open, and the sight of her disheveled appearance in the darkened room beyond the thin wedge of sunlight as the door banged open, then slammed shut. Sam knew there was no reason for her mother to open the door, since she could just scream through it. But her mom would open it just so that she could slam it afterwards. It became known to Sam and her friends as the “scream door.”

“My mom's sick,” Sam would say. She said that a lot. Her lame attempt at an explanation. Her friends would look at her and frown, and then they'd go home for supper, since their moms weren't sick and they had dads, too, most of them.

Sometimes she'd be invited over to a friend's house for supper but she'd have to check with her mom first. Her mom would always say fine. Go get your damn supper somewhere else. I'm sick.

The sickness came and went. Sometimes her mom would get better and she'd find work, usually at a shop or a restaurant. Things would be good for a while and her mom would be happy and busy and vivacious. Then, she'd start taking her medicine again.

One summer, her grandmother came to visit and it was decided that she should take Sam back home to live with her while her mother got better. Her mom said fine.

Her grandmother lived in another state, in a big house in a nice neighborhood that her mother called “fancy schmancy.” That made her grandmother laugh.

“Come on Samantha,” she smiled, taking the girl's hand. “We'll have fun together, doing girl stuff.”

Her grandmother loved girl stuff. She'd been married, years ago, but got divorced at a time when women who got divorced were shunned by those who didn't. Grandma didn't care.

“To hell with other people's opinions,” she told the girl with a conspiratorial wink. “Life's too short for their silly rules.”

Sam loved staying with her grandmother, who'd lived what some people called “a wild life.” She'd left home as a teen, became an army nurse, got married, then divorced. She lost custody of her only daughter, Sam's mom. So she left Texas to travel the world, meeting lots of interesting people along the way. She eventually came back to the states and became a businesswoman. That's how she got her money and the big “show-offy” house, as Sam's mom called it.

Her friends called her Lulu. She had lots of friends, mostly women. She had old photo albums with lots of pictures showing her with her friends, laughing, dancing, wearing gay party dresses and holding up cocktail glasses in merry salute.

That summer, Sam's grandmother took her shopping and bought her some nicer clothes. She took her out to elegant restaurants and tony cafes, taught her which fork to use and how to properly hold a glass, a teacup, a butter knife. At least once a week they'd visit the local library, a magnificently ornate old building that looked like a medieval castle, where Sam could feast her eyes and her imagination on the many shelves of books. She'd roam the different rooms that housed each section, starting with the children's books and then branching out to the more grown-up ones, the biographies of famous people like Amelia Earhart and Helen Keller, or the instructional books that explained how to make your own radio. The first book Sam borrowed from the library was _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_. She'd read the whole thing by the end of the next day.

Sometimes, Grandma would have business to attend to during the day and she'd leave the girl alone in the house for a while. Sam loved having the big house to herself. She'd go into her grandmother's bedroom, lit only by the diffused sunlight streaming through the curtains, and open each drawer of the dressing table, one by one, examining the contents of each. The top drawer on the right contained talcum powder, lipstick, makeup and perfume. The next drawer down was full of wispy silk scarves. The next contained long, elegant gloves that extended all the way up Sam's arms. She loved to pull on each pair of gloves and model them in the mirror, a long, colorful scarf draped around her neck in a sassy fashion. She'd pretend to be smoking a cigarette in a holder, like Lulu did in so many of her pictures. The green gloves were the prettiest, but there were also some brown ones the color of caramel and another pair the blackest black. Sam loved those the most but never dared to try them on. There was something almost sacred about the black gloves, which lay folded at the very back of the drawer, beneath a rose brooch.

Often, while prowling through Grandma's things, Sam would keep an attentive ear for the sound of her car in the driveway. She dreaded the thought of being caught trespassing in such a private space, imagining the look of betrayal and disappointment that would be etched on her grandmother's face should that happen.

But at the same time, she enjoyed the sense of excitement that flooded through her each time she ventured into the quiet, semi-lit bedroom. The feeling that she was somewhere she ought not to be, doing something she ought not to be doing. The forbidden knowledge of someone else's personal belongings, someone else's life, broken open and revealed to her. It was almost delicious.

Sometimes she'd look in other drawers, like the ones in Grandma's antique writing desk. There were check books, ledgers, writing pads and pens. There was the smell of fresh paper and musty wood. There were handwritten letters, some of them bundled up in elastic bands or ribbons. That was the good stuff. Sam could barely contain her excitement as she drew her thumb along the top of the envelopes. The letters were old and written in thick black ink. They were from someone named Jessie and they were full of odd words and exclamation marks and X's that were meant to be kisses. Sam couldn't read all of the words because sometimes the writing got too messy, but she could tell what kind of letters they were. They were love letters. She would carefully put them back in their bundles when she finished reading them, feeling flush with satisfaction and guilty pleasure.

By the end of that summer, Sam had explored most of the nooks and crannies of Grandma's house and read the most fascinating books she could get her hands on, both at Grandma's house and from the library. She'd also discovered something else at the library, something that was all hers and had nothing to do with Grandma or anyone else she knew.

It was a small, special room tucked into a corner on the second floor, with glass walls and a soft humming sound. Inside the room were three computers, sitting on top of desks. There were usually people in there, using the machines. But one day, Sam noticed one of the chairs was empty, the computer in front of it inert, inactive, just waiting for her. She walked in, sat down, turned it on, and watched the lights flicker as the machine begin to click and hum. Then the screen lit up with a single, orange word.

“Boot.”

Sam looked around and saw a printed piece of paper taped to the desk in front of her.

“How to boot your computer,” it read.

Sam glanced at the instructions, then began tapping away on the keyboard. Soon, the screen was alive with numbers and letters and slashes and Sam was falling down the most wondrous rabbit hole she'd ever encountered. A hasty search through the nearby shelves turned up some basic computer manuals which Sam eagerly devoured as she sat in front of the monochromatic screen.

It was during one of these intense sessions that Sam's grandmother came to find her in the computer room.

“What are you doing in here?” she asked, her forehead wrinkled into a frown.

“Programming,” the girl replied with a smile. “Wanna see?”

She turned to let her grandmother see the screen where she'd just finished working on a program to create a calendar.

“I can program it to make pictures too,” she explained, “But I need a printer to show you that.”

Just then, a librarian walked in.

“No children allowed in the computer room,” she announced sternly.

“Why not?” Grandma asked, turning to face the scowling woman.

“Because they're not allowed,” the librarian replied brusquely, then realizing the absurdity of her reply, sighed and added, “We don't want the equipment to get damaged.”

“But she's not damaging anything,” said Grandma. “She's writing programs and making a calendar.”

The librarian looked at the screen, then at the stack of programming books on the desk, then at Sam. Then she leaned towards the screen for a closer look.

“Well I'll be darned,” she said, her expression of disapproval softening. “You sure have picked this up quickly. Where did you learn to write this code?”

“Nowhere... I mean, I just figured out which parts of the program were needed for each step and then I copied them over here ...”

“You reverse-engineered the code,” the librarian marveled, clicking her tongue. She picked up one of the books and examined its cover.

“You've gone through all these books?”

“Yes ma'am,” answered Sam. “Do you have any more?”

Grandma and the librarian exchanged looks.

“I'll see if I can get you some,” the librarian said. “Look, we don't usually let kids play in here, but I'll make an exception for you, Miss --?”

“Samantha,” Grandma prompted. “She's staying with me for the summer, then going back to Texas when school starts.”

“Check at the front desk next time you come in,” the librarian said with a smile. “Ask for Ms. May – that's me. I'll find some new material for you.”

Sure enough, there were several books waiting for Sam on her next visit to the library, including a biography of Ada Lovelace.

“Lord Byron's daughter?” Grandma said, glancing at the picture of the pretty Victorian woman on the book's cover.

“Betcha didn't know the very first computer programmer was a woman,” Ms. May nodded at Sam.

“Cool,” the girl replied with a shy smile.

The remainder of the summer featured frequent trips to the library, where Sam furthered her digital explorations and read as much as she could about the pioneers of computer science, including Lovelace and her mentor, Charles Babbage. She also managed to re-read _Alice in Wonderland_ as well as its sequel, _Through the Looking Glass._

The girl's near-obsessive reading and studying was a delight to her grandmother, who would quiz her over dinner about what she'd learned. Sam, who'd always been a quiet, thoughtful girl, found she enjoyed conversing about such sophisticated, grown-up topics.

It was nice having smart people like Grandma and Ms. May to talk to, Sam realized. She dreaded returning home and being left with, well, nobody who could carry on an intelligent conversation. But the day came when Grandma drove her back to her mother's house and deposited her there. Sam couldn't hold back her tears when her grandmother hugged and kissed her goodbye.

“Be good,” she told her. “I'll be back next summer and we can finish our talk about Mary Shelley.”

But Grandma never came back for Sam. She died several months later in a car accident, and Sam found out about it when she came home from school one afternoon and found her mother sprawled on the couch, clutching a half-empty bottle of tequila.

“Grandma's dead,” she slurred, not even bothering to look her daughter in the eye as she delivered the devastating news.

Stunned, Sam dropped her book bag on the floor. “What?” was all she could manage to say.

“Pick up your bag,” her mom replied. “I don't want to trip over it.”

A few weeks later, a large brown envelope arrived in the mail, addressed to Sam's mother, who began to swear when she read the letter inside.

“Damn her, damn her,” she repeated in a profane mantra as her eyes flitted across the letter. She clenched her lips around her cigarette and sucked hard. “Fucking bullshit.”

“What is it?” Sam asked, looking up from her book.

“Your dear departed grandmother -- my own mother,” came the reply. “She's decided to leave her money to you.”

Sam stood up and went to where her mother sat hunched over the coffee table, stubbing out the end of her cigarette.

“Can I see?” she asked.

“Sure, feast your eyes,” her mother said, getting up from the couch and shoving the letter in front of Sam's face. “It will be left in trust for you, and you can't touch it until you are 21.”

“But why'd she do that?” Sam asked, widening her eyes innocently as the implications of her mother's words began to sink in. The question brought an angry stare as her mom turned to face her again.

“Because she didn't want me to get any of her precious dough,” she replied bitterly. “She said I'd just spend it all on booze and drugs.”

Sam looked up. Was her mother really so deluded as to think she'd spend it on anything else? It all seemed elementary to Sam. Grandma's strategy made perfect sense and her mother's righteous indignation was unjust, illogical and just plain stupid.

“But that _is_ what you'd do,” Sam protested, lifting her chin ever so slightly.

Before she could even finish, her mother's hand lashed out, slicing through the air and landing hard on the side of her face. Sam's head was jolted back with the impact, and she felt the surprise and the shame of it even more than the spreading pain as she instinctively massaged her stinging cheek with her hand.

“Don't be smart,” her mom spat, reaching for another cigarette as she returned to her familiar refuge on the couch. “Just don't you be smart with me.”

///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////


	2. A Snippet of Code

“She smacked you in the head?” Shaw's voice betrayed a slight hint of surprise. “Just like that?”

“It wasn't the first time,” Root replied softly. “Your parents never hit you?”

“No.”

They didn't speak again for a while. Shaw's dark eyes closed briefly and she kissed Root's forehead before turning over to face the other way. End of conversation.

“Sorry,” Root said after a few minutes. “I forgot. You don't like to talk about them.”

She waited, listening for a reaction, but there was nothing. Root sighed softly and turned over so that she was looking at the low nightstand and the bare wall beyond it. She expected to hear Shaw's breathing gradually deepening into the sounds of slumber, but instead there was the rustle of bed sheets as her lover shifted beside her. Shaw was turning back over, her arm reaching around Root to cradle her long body inside the curve of her warm, compact torso.

Root couldn't help smiling as she felt Shaw's mouth on the back of her neck, her shoulder. Whoever would have pegged Shaw for a cuddler, anyway? Surely not Root, who'd spent months trying to wear down that tough-as-nails veneer before finally managing to get Shaw into bed. It had not been easy.

Now, Shaw's hand was on her cheek, near her earlobe, stroking it slowly with the back of her fingers as her lips moved behind her neck again. The sheets were tangled around them -- not surprising considering the way Shaw had taken her so savagely last night. Root had been caught off guard by the sudden burst of passion that brought their heated argument to an end. They'd been having a rather strong disagreement over how to handle a number, and Root had been trying, with all the reason and patience she could summon, to convince Shaw to come around to her point of view.

She'd come around, all right. The next thing Root knew, Shaw was grabbing her, pushing her up against the wall and ripping off her blouse. Then they were in bed, all over each other, gasping and moaning and kissing.

It always seemed to happen that way between them. Shaw seemed to need the frantic desperation of it all, like a pressure cooker that steadily built up steam until it blew its lid. Only afterwards, when they were both exhausted and lying there quietly in bed, would Root get to see Shaw's tender side. They'd talk softly, or more precisely Root would talk and Shaw would listen intently, her deep brown eyes calm and her breath languid, while Root opened her soul to the one person she trusted completely.

It was such an immense relief to finally confide in someone, after years of not trusting, not believing in anyone or anything except herself. There were times she wanted to just tear herself open, revealing all the poison inside her, lurking in the layers under her skin. Would Shaw be repulsed by it? Would she see it as something akin to her own inner darkness? Maybe she'd lean over Root's flayed body and suck out the evil, like venom from a snake bite. Or maybe she'd just roll her eyes, unimpressed.

It didn't matter. It only mattered that Root had finally found someone worth caring about. There hadn't been many of those. Not since her grandmother. Not since Hanna.

She'd told Shaw about her. About those lonely years following her grandmother's death, when no one seemed to understand what she was going through. Certainly not her sicker and more anesthetized mother. Then Hanna had come along and taken young Sam under her wing, for some reason. Maybe she felt sorry for her. Hanna was kind and empathetic, and more importantly in Sam's opinion, she was smart.

It was nice to be around someone who could talk about the things that interested Sam. They'd often go to the library after school, since Hanna wanted to study and Sam wanted to be away from her soused mother. Hanna would encourage her shy friend to talk and share her ideas, unlike Sam's classmates who were openly jealous and resentful of her intellect.

Sam began to learn this hard lesson around Grade 6 or 7, when she would get the highest marks in math class, surpassing even the smartest boys. She recalled one particular morning, when she realized the teacher had made a mistake marking her solution to a problem on a test. She walked over to the teacher's desk to speak to him about it.

One boy sitting at the front of the class, a goblin-faced lad who constantly scratched his neck, pounced immediately.

“Look at Groves,” he sneered, clawing at a raw patch. “She got the highest mark in the class and now she wants more.”

Sam stared at him, astonished. He was angry at her because she dared to be smarter, more capable than he was. Sam had always been a good student and was rewarded with high marks, but now she realized something had changed. Boys didn't like girls who were smart. And girls didn't like girls who were poor and wore cheap shoes and whose mothers drank. Either way, it didn't matter. She was out.

Her face flushed with shame, Sam returned to her seat and forgot about her math test. Don't be smart, her mother had told her. Now she understood why. Being smart was dangerous.

The only person who didn't try to make Sam feel bad was Hanna. At the library, the girls would discuss books they'd both read and Hanna made it clear that she valued Sam's opinion.

“This one's good. It's a sad, tragic love story,” she told Sam one afternoon, handing her a copy of _Flowers for Algernon._

Sam handed it back to her the next day. “It's actually science fiction,” she said.

“Really?” asked Hanna. “I didn't get that.”

“Hmm. Maybe try reading it again.”

Hanna smiled. “It's due back anyway. I'll have to check it out again.”

Sam watched Hanna walk away down the hall, heading to class, the slim novel tucked away with the other books in her arms, held against her chest in the lady-like fashion most of the girls employed.

Sam turned and headed into the computer lab, knowing she'd be lucky to get a seat at one of the machines today. There were only enough computers for half of the class to use at any one time and the boys liked to take the best seats. On the rare occasions Sam got a chance to use a machine, she'd be harassed by those waiting for their chance. It was annoying.

She taught herself to tune out the others as she worked and usually had her assignment done in less than half the time it took her classmates to finish. After that, she'd start noodling around, playing with the code, finding ways to make it better. It soon occurred to her that not only could she make the programs better, she could find all the places where they were vulnerable.

As she dived deeper into her work, Sam became aware of that same pleasant, tingling sensation that she'd noticed while creeping through her grandmother's things, the feeling that she could move silently through this new, clandestine world and find special things there. It was her place, her world.

Unfortunately, she was never able to stay there for long. Soon, the teacher would be walking around the desks, telling the students to hurry up and finish their work so that other people could use the computers.

She bit her lip, shoved her books into her bag and headed over to the public library, hoping the computer there would be free. There wasn't much on it, just a few educational games, like that one Hanna liked to play. Last week, after Hanna had left, Sam managed to find a way to hack into it and manipulate the scoring program. She'd try to get in there again tonight, maybe run up the score to a ridiculous number and christen it with a new name -- her hacker name. She'd already thought of a good one.

It wasn't long after that Hanna went missing. Sam tried to get people to help but it was no use. No one believed her and no one thought she was worth listening to. She was alone, once again, her faith in people destroyed. She gave up on school and let her marks drop. She had other, more important projects to pursue.

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

It still hurt to tell that story, the one about the night Hanna disappeared. Shaw showed little reaction to it, and no reaction at all to Root's confession about what she'd done to those responsible. As for the classmates and teachers who'd made her life hell, Shaw just shrugged.  
  
“You shouldn't have let them discourage you,” she commented between bites of the breakfast sandwich Root had placed before her on the kitchen table. “I'd have told them all to go fuck themselves.”  
  
“I know you would have,” Root replied. “But it didn't really discourage me. It made me angry. It made me want to be smarter and stronger, to get the hell out of there and put all of it, all of them, behind me. Anyway, I got my revenge.”

  
Shaw was too busy with her sandwich to look up. “Did you put cilantro in here with the egg and the cheese?”

“Yes.”

“Mmm, it goes perfect with the sausage and the sourdough.”

“Glad you like it,” Root smiled back. “I had a feeling you'd want something substantial for breakfast, after all the exercise you got last night.”

Shaw didn't answer since her mouth was full, and also because she didn't want to give Root the satisfaction. She chewed carefully, savoring the mixture of tastes and textures dancing on her tongue. Her gaze moved to the cutting board on the counter top, where Root had been busy with a knife a while earlier.

“What's in the relish? Onion? Garlic?” Shaw asked, still not looking at Root.

“Both,” Root answered, getting up to refill Shaw's coffee mug. “There's a little bit of kale in there as well, and some of that spicy hot sauce.”

“Mmm,” Shaw repeated, finishing off the last piece and finally looking up at Root. “Where'd you learn to cook?”

“I watched a lot of cooking shows on TV,” Root replied. “My mom was always sick, so I had to teach myself. Otherwise I would have starved.”

Shaw stared at Root for a few seconds, gauging her expression.

“Your mom's not alive now, is she?”

“No.”

“You left home after she died?”

“I already had my inheritance by then," Root shrugged. "It was enough for me to start a new life. And, I had a plan.”

“Why am I not surprised,” came Shaw's dry response.

“There was a university campus in a city not too far away from where I grew up,” Root explained, sitting back down at the table. “I had no problem hacking into the admissions system and creating a spot for myself as a student in the psychology program. I made up a profile and a fake name. No one was ever the wiser.”

“Psychology, huh?” Shaw asked, wiping her mouth with a napkin. “Interesting choice.”

“It seemed like a good place to start, studying human behavior. I signed up for some other courses too, whatever interested me. But being a registered student there also gave me access to the computer center, which is what I really wanted.”

“Hackers gotta hack,” Shaw said, sipping her coffee. “You're lucky you didn't get caught.”

“Luck has nothing to do with it,” Root leaned across the table with a lopsided grin. “I never get caught.”

Shaw's hand darted out and grasped Root's wrist tightly. Then, she rose from her chair and stepped behind Root's, squeezing her squirming victim between the neck and shoulders with both hands and planting a firm kiss on her right temple.

“You're forgetting one thing,” she whispered into Root's ear before releasing her. “I caught you.”

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Shaw was quickly out the door, having made plans to join Reese that morning for a mission. The two women parted the way they always did, without any goodbyes or promises to see each other later. It was an unspoken pact between them that they never expected anything. This made for some anxious moments for Root, but there was always a payoff when Shaw would show up at the last second. Excitement. There was no shortage of that.

Root got up from the table, took the breakfast dishes to the sink and did a quick tidy up around the little kitchen in Shaw's loft. For someone who loved to eat, Shaw didn't have much of a space for cooking. The stove was decent but the counter top was tiny and there was no dishwasher. She obviously ate out a lot.

At first, Shaw had been annoyed at Root's domestic proclivities and told her not to cook or clean up at her place. But these objections had gradually given way to a silent, almost grudging acceptance that she did like having someone cook for her and that yes, Root was pretty good at it.

Root was good at a lot of things, although as she grew up and finished high school, she found few people expected much of her. Maybe it was because of where she came from, or maybe it was because she had become rather pretty as she reached her late teens. She noticed that women who were pretty were not expected to be smart as well. A woman could be one or the other, but it was not considered fair to be both.

This insight into human nature was just one of the many important things Root had already learned before beginning college. While she'd been quiet in high school, she relished the chance to be someone else now, to start over with a new persona. It was easy enough, under the name she'd used to create her fake profile. At first, she wondered if anyone would catch on that the name Shannon Hopper was simply a mashup of computer programmer Grace Hopper and mathematician Claude Elwood Shannon.

But no one did, and she quickly slipped into the persona of Shannon, a cute, friendly, somewhat naive freshman. She enjoyed most of her classes but especially liked those in philosophy, which introduced her to Hobbes and Nietzsche, and psychology, where she devoured the writings of behaviorists like B.F. Skinner.

Root soon developed some basic theories about human nature. The first was that once people believed something, they wanted to continue believing it. All you had to do was gain their confidence and tell them what they wanted to hear. A nice smile helped hook them in, and Root had a very nice smile.

The second theory was that deep down, most people were pretty stupid, even the ones who thought they were smart. Root soon had an opportunity to put both theories to the test.

Not long after starting at the university, she moved into a house just off campus with two classmates. Root quite liked Mitchell, a sensitive, artistic young man who loved to read Carl Jung, listen to Joy Division and smoke pot.

But she was more interested in Vicky, whose tall frame and long wavy hair reminded her of Hanna. Vicky was well-spoken and cultured, like Root's grandmother. She was also a few years older than Root, having returned to school after taking some time off to travel with her mother in Europe.

Root wanted to spend as much time as possible around Vicky, hoping some of that refinement and sophistication might rub off on her. She also had other feelings about Vicky that she recognized as romantic ones. They spent many afternoons that tumbled into late evenings debating Freud, Jung and other psychoanalysts, with Mitchell often lending his thoughts to the discussions. Root loved the lively conversations they'd share, although she was careful to stay within the personal confines of Shannon and her less cynical world view. The three of them often hung around on campus together and went out for Chinese food at a nearby restaurant. When alone with Shannon, Vicky would talk about her travels and her love of poetry, and would gently hold her younger friend's hand while reciting Shelley or Keats. Root found herself falling in love, as Shannon, but also as herself. It was a strange, wonderful sensation.

In her spare time, Root would go to the computer center, where she could safely work on her latest hacking campaign, being careful to cover her tracks as she did so. It was so exciting to lead a double life -- one life filled with the pleasures of friendship and burgeoning romance and another that was secret, vengeful and destructive. She was having the time of her life.

Of course, something had to come along and ruin it all.

////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////


	3. Information Theory

“I've just met the most interesting person,” Vicky announced one day upon returning to the house. “Ned Sacopa. He's in my politics class.”

“Ned who?” Root asked. She didn't give a damn about politics and neither did her alter-ego, Shannon.

“He's taking me out for dinner tonight,” Vicky continued, kicking off her sandals to reveal her bare feet.

“I thought we were going out for Chinese with Mitchell.”

Vicky flicked her hand dismissively.

“Another time,” she said, staring down at her toes. “I'd better wear my boots.”

Root followed Vicky's gaze to the long, bony toes below, which had pale, thin strips of skin between them.

“Webbed,” Vicky explained upon seeing her friend's perplexed expression. “I have webbed feet. Didn't you know? I don't want Ned to see them, it might freak him out.”

She hurried up the stairs to her bedroom, where Root could hear her rummaging through her closet. She'd never noticed Vicky's feet before. She didn't care much about the webbing between her toes. But she had noticed some other things about Vicky lately, such as the way she so casually dismissed her younger friend's feelings and observations.

Root's concerns were echoed later that evening as she shared a plate of lo mein with Mitchell.

“She's off on another one of her obsessive relationships,” he commented dryly, twisting several long noodles around a chopstick. “She'll have no time for us, count on it.”

Root tried not to show her disappointment. She'd grown fond of Vicky, despite her older friend's occasional flashes of insensitivity. Surely this Ned person would not disturb the delicate balance of their tight-knit trio. But her fears proved well founded. Vicky was out the following afternoon and evening with Ned, and began inviting him over to the house, as well. Ned wasted no time in making himself at home, letting himself in when he pleased and helping himself to the contents of the refrigerator, whether Vicky was around or not.

The first time Root met him, he was standing in the kitchen in his boxers one morning, eating peanut butter out of the jar with his fingers and drinking milk from the carton.

“Hey babe,” the stocky man greeted her with a greasy smile. “You must be Shannon.”

He stuck the milk carton back in the fridge and closed the door with his elbow.

“Vicky told me all about you,” he added, fixing her with a reptilian grin as he sucked the residual paste from his fingers. “I had no idea you were so hot.”

“I had no idea you were such a ...” Root quickly stopped herself from using the word “troglodyte.” She was supposed to be the naive Shannon, not herself.

“Such a what?” he asked, wiping his hands on his boxers as he moved closer.

Root took a step back and began a random search in her brain for an appropriate synonym. Creep? Cretin? Palooka? Her response was interrupted by the appearance of Vicky, wearing a silky pink nightgown.

“Good morning,” she said breezily. “Did you put the coffee on?”

“No,” Root replied, heading for the back door. There was something about Ned that made her skin crawl and she knew she'd feel much better if she was not in the same room with him.

“I don't like him either,” Mitchell told her later as they lounged on the floor cushions in his room, listening to the latest Radiohead album.

They'd been discussing Skinner and Pavlov, among other things, and their conversation soon drifted to the issue of Vicky and her paramour.

“What does she see in him?” Root asked, trying to hit the right note of puzzlement and disgust that Shannon would express.

“Who knows?” Mitchell replied, lighting up a joint. “And who cares, really?”

Root frowned. She cared, although not as much as she did before. She was beginning to see that Vicky wasn't really that much like Hanna on the inside. Where Hanna had been understanding and kind, Vicky was judgmental and self-centered. And while Hanna had encouraged her younger friend to express her thoughts and opinions, Vicky didn't like to be challenged or questioned at all. Maybe that was how Ned worked her, by flattering and validating her needy nature. He had certainly made quick work of worming his way into her life, and her house.

“It's just peanut butter,” Mitchell was saying. “It's not that big a deal, but he could at least ask.”

Root nodded. Yes, the sense of entitlement that Ned emanated was one of his most unattractive qualities. That and the sliminess.

“He's moved his weight-lifting equipment into the basement,” Mitchell added, nodding towards the back stairs. “Guess he's trying to build himself into Schwarzenegger.”

“He'd need a personality transplant,” Root noted dryly.

They both laughed at that, but Root had a nagging sense of uneasiness, on top of her intense dislike of the interloper.

A few days later, Vicky and Ned invited her to see a movie with them and Ned placed himself in a seat between the two women. Once the theater darkened, Root felt a hand slip onto her knee. She pushed it away but it came back. Again, she shoved it away but the hand was persistent, sliding over the arm rest and onto her leg again, forcing its way toward her inner thigh.

Her embarrassment giving way to alarm, she finally hissed at him loudly, causing Vicky to look over at them. To Root's relief, he stopped his groping and smoothly slipped his hand back to his side of the arm rest. Root took a deep breath and stifled her compulsion to punch him in the throat, or the crotch. But what would Shannon do? Root quickly computed her possible reactions and decided that Shannon would be embarrassed and scared, which is exactly what Ned would be counting on. Fine, you prick. Game on.

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Shaw clenched her jaw, ever so slightly. Root felt the shorter woman's forearms tighten as they grappled, and she couldn't help smiling, enjoying the closeness of their bodies. Shaw's hair was touching her skin, her soft breath was on her neck, and her voice -- that sexy voice -- was in her ear.

“Don't just use your upper body,” the voice instructed. “Your feet -- use your feet.”

Root pushed her right leg between Shaw's and tried to hook her ankle behind her opponent's calf but found herself upended and landing hard on her back, the wind knocked out of her, yet again.

Shaw's forearm was pressed across Root's neck, pinning her. Root gasped for breath, looking up helplessly into the face grinning down on her.

“You dead,” Shaw announced with a smirk before getting up and helping Root to her feet.

“Look, you're never going to out-muscle your opponent,” Shaw explained, re-positioning herself and reaching out to grab Root's shoulder. “You have to use their strength, their weight, their momentum against them.”

Root turned quickly and swung her hips around so that Shaw was thrown over her back in one quick movement.

“Like that?” she asked, her knee on Shaw's rib cage and her other leg pinning Shaw's pelvis to the floor.

“Ahhh,” Shaw groaned, overacting slightly. “Yeah, but don't forget the punch to the throat. Quick and hard. You don't want to give them a chance to recover.”

“Got it,” Root replied, releasing Shaw and extending a hand to help her up.

Shaw waved her off and jumped to her feet in one quick athletic motion that made Root's spine tingle. It made a few things tingle, but Root kept that to herself.

“Show off,” she told Shaw teasingly. “I know you let me throw you that last time.”

“Maybe,” Shaw replied with a shake of her head. “But you are getting better.”

They walked off the mats set up in the corner of Shaw's loft and over to the kitchen area, where Shaw filled two plastic cups with water and handed one to Root.

“I wish I'd known how to do this stuff years ago,” Root said after taking a few sips. “There are a few people I could have used it on.”

“You knew enough,” Shaw replied. “Something tells me I'm glad you didn't have fighting skills as well.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Root arched an eyebrow. “Are you suggesting that I'd have used my skills for nefarious purposes?”

Shaw scoffed. “Let's just say your heart wasn't exactly in the right place.”

“It's in the right place now.”

Shaw turned her head to avoid meeting Root's steady gaze. God, did she ever stop flirting? It was getting to be more than annoying. It was getting to be ... well, hard to ignore. She finished her water and took the cup from Root's hand, then rinsed both cups in the sink.

“I'm meeting Reese at two o'clock,” she said. That was Root's cue to leave.

“Grab a shower?” Root asked offhandedly.

“Who, me or you?” Shaw shot back. Oh damn, she'd walked right into that one.

“Why not save some water?” Root replied with a smile, already unzipping her yoga top with one hand and dragging Shaw towards the bathroom with the other.

A few seconds later they were grappling again, only this time their bodies were wet and naked and Shaw could feel Root's hand moving between her legs, Root's warm mouth sucking her neck. The cold tiles of the shower pressed against her face as Root's hand began to move faster, more urgently, and despite a promise to herself that she would never give herself over to Root ever again, Shaw found herself indeed giving over, and heard herself beginning to moan, and heard Root's soft voice, gently, playfully, urging her to let go.

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

The noise coming from Vicky's room was horribly distracting, as usual, but this time Ned wasn't to blame, not directly anyway. Vicky was packing for a weekend ski trip to Aspen, with Ned of course, and was making sure everyone in the house knew about it.

“Shannon, have you seen my ski gloves?” she shouted down the stairs, having slammed every closet door and dresser drawer she could possibly find.

“Nope,” Root called back.

Mitchell came out of the kitchen holding a coffee mug, looked up the stairs, rolled his eyes and then retreated back into the kitchen as Vicky came thumping down the steps and squared to face Root, who was sitting on the couch in the living room, studying.

“Did you borrow them without asking?” Vicky demanded, her hands on her hips.

“No, of course not,” Root replied. “Why would I need ski gloves?”

Vicky huffed and began hunting around the living room and the front hall closet. Then she began looking on the side tables and picking up the couch cushions and looking under them. She picked up one of Root's books.

“Schrodinger,” she said, glancing at the cover. “How boring.”

“Have you read his work?” Root asked, trying not to sound offended, just curious, the way Shannon would be.

“Of course I have,” Vicky shrugged. “It didn't tell me anything I didn't already know.”

She thumped back up the stairs as Root stared after her. Mitchell stuck his head out from the kitchen.

“Well, pardon me to pieces,” he quipped, then took a long sip of his coffee. “You want one?”

“Sure,” Root got up and joined him in the kitchen. She never thought she'd find herself wishing Vicky would leave, but she was wishing it now.

“She said the same thing about Jung,” Mitchell told Root sympathetically as he poured her coffee into a mug. “Despite his humongous output of books, essays, articles ... he just couldn't tell her anything she didn't already know.”

They both chuckled and Mitchell clinked his mug against Root's. The moment didn't last, however. Vicky was soon calling for Shannon again, wanting some help with her wardrobe. Root trudged upstairs, fighting the urge to revert to her real identity. No, she was Shannon. Sweet, happy, never irritated or angry Shannon.

“What do you think of this?” Vicky was asking as Root entered the bedroom.

She pulled a hounds-tooth cape over her shoulders. “Is it too conservative?”

Root stared at the cape. All it needed was a deerstalker hat, like Sherlock Holmes would wear.

“Are you planning on solving a mystery?” she quipped, arching an eyebrow. “Like _The Hound of the Baskervilles_?

Vicky huffed and tossed the cape on her bed. “I'd prefer constructive criticism,” she sniffed.

“OK,” Root said after some thought, “I have something constructive for you.”

She went over to the bed and sat down next to the discarded hounds-tooth cape, running her fingers over the rough, woven material. This would be a delicate discussion, but it had to be done.

“Um, it might be a good idea to tell your boyfriend to keep his hands off other people,” Root began. “He got a little touchy-feely with me at the movies the other day.”

Vicky turned to look at her with an expression of horror. But her reply was interrupted by the sound of a creak on the floor, just outside the open bedroom door. Root turned to see Ned there, still as a statue. When did he come in and how long had he been standing there?

“Your ski gloves,” he addressed Vicky with a oily smile. “You left them in my car. I thought you'd want to pack them.”

He handed them to her, then gave Root a sickening smirk while Vicky turned to place the gloves in her suitcase.

“That's funny,” Vicky said. “I don't remember having them in your car. Oh well, thanks babe.”

She gave him a hug and closed her suitcase, which Ned then picked up and carried downstairs without a word. Root followed them down.

“Vicky,” she began, but Ned was already heading outside to his car, with Vicky scampering at his heels. Root and Mitchell watched from the doorway as the pair drove off.

Mitchell began fishing through the pockets of his khakis for a joint, found one and lit up.

“She's alive and dead, both at the same time,” he said.

/////////////////////////////


	4. The Vorpal Blade

“Is something wrong?” Reese asked quietly as he adjusted his binoculars and held them up again, trying to focus on the number across the street.

Shaw bridled, lowered her rifle for a moment, then brought it back up to her shoulder, aiming at her own target.

“What d'ya mean?” she asked, closing one eye and waiting for Reese's response in her earpiece.

“You seem off tonight, like something's on your mind.”

“There's nothing.”

“OK then,” Reese replied. “Sorry.”

He waited a tick, then heard Shaw's voice in his ear. “Got 'em.”

“Your call,” Reese said, a split second before the sound of Shaw's shot rang out.

The target went down and Reese spotted the number making a break for the back exit of the building.

“He's on the move,” he reported, heading across the street to intercept his assignment. “Catch you later.”

“Sure boss,” Shaw replied, packing up her rifle and slinging her duffel bag over her shoulder.

She walked to the edge of the roof and began climbing down the fire escape on the outside of the building, swearing under her breath as her foothold slipped slightly. Quickly regaining her balance, she jumped nimbly to the metal landing below, drawing some blood as she bit her lip. Damn. Reese was right, she wasn't herself lately. And there _was_ something on her mind, or someone.

When she got home, Root would be gone. Shaw wasn't sure if she was happy or sad about that. Feeling happy or sad was challenging enough but not knowing which one to feel was even worse. How did this happen anyway? One minute they'd been unlikely allies on a mission and the next, well, they'd become something else. Or something more.

Strangely, Root seemed to know that she'd be getting Shaw into bed sooner or later, or at least she acted like she knew. The Machine was telling her stuff all the time and Shaw had no doubt The Machine had told Root lots of stuff about her. Like her past. Like her fondness for zip ties and rolling chairs. Like her desire to be restrained and subjected to, well, the kind of things that only Root could do to her.

The Machine even seemed to know things Shaw hadn't realized about herself. The teasing way Root spoke to her when she had her tied up in that chair in the hotel room was so annoying. It made Shaw so irritated and riled up, she could feel the anger way down inside her, fighting to get to the surface. Her legs were getting restless, the adrenaline starting to pump into them. Just another minute or so and she would have Root on her back and she would be wiping that smirk off her face. And then. And then ...

But it didn't happen that way and Root had escaped just in time, like she always did. For quite a while afterwards, the memory of what Root had done sat in the pit of Shaw's stomach, gnawing away at her. She had to find her again. Not just for revenge, no, there was something else she wanted from Root. And she knew there was something Root wanted from her.

The only question in Shaw's mind back then, was whether or not she would give Root the chance to try to ensnare her again. The more she thought about it, the more she knew she had to.

These ruminations kept Shaw's mind occupied as she silently made her way back to her building in the darkness. Reaching her place at last, she took a deep breath and opened the door to her loft. Quiet. Dark. Empty. Yes, Root had disappeared again. And there was no way of knowing when, or if, she'd be back.

///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Vicky returned from her ski trip after several days, seemingly more infatuated than ever. She giggled like a school girl whenever Ned was around, something he encouraged. Their behavior prompted eye rolls from Mitchell and a feeling of nausea in Root.

Nearing the end of her months-long hacking project in the university's computer lab, Root had started making plans about what to do next. Vicky's transformation into a vacuous idiot had Root considering the idea of moving on fairly soon, with a new identity and a new target. Something bigger. Something much bigger.

But she wasn't the only person looking ahead to the future. That evening after dinner, Vicky announced that she'd come to a decision, thanks to Ned's help, about what her career path would be. She wanted to be a professional hypnotist. She said she had already hypnotized herself, which proved her talent. She then demonstrated her skill by attempting to hypnotize Mitchell, who promptly fell asleep.

“Let me try you,” she told Root, giving up in disgust on the snoring young man. “Close your eyes.”

Root humored her, but grew tired of the game after just a few minutes and began speaking in a croaking voice as though channeling a spirit.

“An evil presence is around you,” she intoned. “Beware Macduff! Beware the Thane of Fife!”

Vicky huffed and got up as Root giggled. It was kind of mean but she couldn't help it. Even the sweet, bubbly Shannon would have giggled at this nonsense.

“Laugh all you want,” Vicky said angrily. “Ned let me hypnotize him. He had me lead him through a visualization.”

“Really?” Mitchell was emerging from his catnap. “Where'd you take him? To Narnia?”

“No,” she replied, closing her eyelids slowly in an impatient manner. “He wanted me to help him visualize winning the game on Friday. He's on the football team, you know.”

“Really?” Mitchell replied with a tone of exaggerated surprise. “He's on the football team? I had no idea.”

Root stifled a snicker. All anybody in the house had been hearing about for the past several weeks was how Ned was on the football team, how Ned was hoping to make first string, how Ned was lifting weights in order to “bulk up” and improve his “explosive power.” Whatever.

“Go ahead and laugh,” Vicky admonished her roommates. “Shows what the two of you know. He's been training very hard and he's going to make it because he's a winner.”

Root and Mitchell exchanged glances, which further infuriated their roommate.

“You're just jealous!” she said, glaring at them. “Both of you are jealous.”

“Jealous of what?” Root asked.

“He's jealous of me,” Vicky responded, jabbing a finger at Mitchell, “because he knows I'll be graduating with honors while he is flunking out.”

Root looked at Mitchell, who was staring at the worn pocket flaps on his khakis. He suddenly looked miserable.

“Yeah, OK, so I flunked my mid-terms,” he said without looking up.

“It's not the end of the world,” Root said hopefully. “If you don't get the credit you can just pick it up next year.”

Mitchell just shook his head, while Vicky's mouth curled into a nasty smile.

“He won't be able to do that if the Bank of Mom and Dad pull his tuition,” she said. “He'll be back to slinging burgers, or souvlaki or whatever it was he was doing before.”

Mitchell raked a hand through his dark, curly hair and began hunting for a roach in his pocket, muttering something Root could not make out. She stood up and faced Vicky, who was grinning triumphantly.

“So what do you think I'm jealous about?” Root asked. She felt like strangling Vicky but kept her cool.

“You?” Vicky replied. “We all know what you are jealous about.”

“What?” Root asked, crossing her arms in front of her body to keep her hands from reaching for Vicky's neck.

“Ned told me what happened. How you tried to seduce him.”

“Excuse me? He told you what?”

“You're mad because he turned you down. Well you'll never turn me against him.”

Vicky turned and practically ran from the room, leaving her roommates to chew over her angry tirade. Root fought the compulsion to go after Vicky and try to explain, knowing it would probably be a waste of time. Ned had his girlfriend fooled and she believed what she wanted to believe. Anything else would be considered an unforgivable betrayal.

Root's instincts told her that now would be a good time to cut and run. But the sight of Mitchell collapsed on the sofa, his head back, his eyes glazed and sad as he puffed on the tiny end of a joint, made her hesitate. She'd seen this particular tableau before and she hated the way it tugged at her heart. Getting emotionally involved had been a huge mistake and now she was paying the price. Still, the lines had been drawn.

During the next several days, Root's roommates were like quiet shadows in the house. Vicky, still obviously angry, was avoiding her. Mitchell kept to his own room, listening to his music and smoking weed. Root went to the computer lab each day and tied up the loose ends she needed to take care of. She'd already started crafting her next alias, having managed to steal the social security number she'd need. There would be bank accounts to set up, fake references to create, a whole life to stitch together from a veil of lies.

This was the fun part. She had come up with another clever name that paid tribute to futurist Ray Kurzweil as well as astrophysicist Maria Mitchell. Root now considered Shannon Hopper to be something akin to a rehearsal -- a practice run with training wheels. Her next move would be to another state where the stakes would be higher. She could already feel the excitement as she packed up and left the lab on the Friday night, heading home.

When she got there, the house was strangely quiet, with neither Vicky nor Mitchell to be seen anywhere. Then, Root remembered that Vicky would have gone to Ned's football game and wouldn't be back until much later. Still, something seemed off. Root began to head to her room but decided instead to see if Mitchell was interested in going out for Chinese.

As she walked into his room, a feeling of dread descended on her. There he was, lying fully clothed on his bed, face down. An empty container of pills lay on the floor nearby. Root quickly turned him over and, unable to get a verbal response or a pulse, grabbed the phone and dialed 911.

The next few hours were excruciating as Root waited in the hospital emergency room. After a while, a nurse emerged to tell her that Mitchell would survive, thanks to her, but that his parents would have to be notified. Did she have their contact information? Root shook her head. She'd have to go back to the house to find all the needed numbers. The nurse suggested that she also bring in a change of clothes, which Mitchell would need once he was discharged.

“Something loose-fitting and comfortable,” the nurse suggested before walking briskly away.

Root took a deep breath and headed out to the street. Loose-fitting and comfortable was all Mitchell did. She could probably find all the needed items and be back at the hospital within the hour. But she wasn't in any hurry to get his parents involved and she also suspected that the nurse had sent her on this errand just to give her something to do, rather than have her sitting, waiting and worrying in the ER.

It was quite late when she got back to the house and she could see from the shoes left in the front hallway that Vicky and Ned were there. Her plan was to get to Mitchell's room as quickly and quietly as possible. She'd barely made the kitchen when Ned appeared, a hulking shadow in the doorway.

“Late night?” he asked, blocking her way into the living room. It was dark but Root could tell he had that horrid reptilian grin on his face.

“Excuse me,” she said, trying to get past him in the doorway.

Ned didn't budge and she had to squeeze through. In a split second, he had her against the wall, his thick body pressed against hers.

“Why aren't you more friendly?” he asked, the breath and saliva from his mouth hitting her face. “Don't you like me?”

Root was about to jam her knee between his legs when the light on the stairs flicked on and Vicky's voice made Ned jump back.

“What's going on down there?” Vicky called out. “Ned?”

“Yeah babe!” Ned called back as Vicky descended the stairs. “Shannon's home. I think she was out drinking.”

Vicky appeared in the living room, her forehead wrinkled into a disapproving frown.

“She could be a little quieter about it,” she said, staring at Root. “It's the middle of the night.”

“I wasn't out drinking,” Root said. “I was at the hospital with Mitchell. He OD'd.”

“What?” Vicky shrieked. “Why didn't you call me?”

Root spent the next few minutes being peppered with questions from Vicky, who wanted to know which hospital Mitchell was at, what his doctor's name was, how his parents were going to be notified and where their phone numbers might be.

“I came back to get all that stuff,” Root explained. “And to get a change of clothes for him.”

“I'll take care of that,” Vicky huffed. “Ned can drive me to the hospital. You might as well just go to bed and get some sleep.”

Vicky whirled through the house like a dervish, grabbing things and pulling on clothes as she went. She soon swept out the door with a grimacing Ned right behind her.

Root heard the car's engine start up. She'd been dismissed, again. While she found Vicky's behavior irksome, she was glad to have some peace and quiet and especially grateful to have Ned out of her personal space. Soon, she thought, the pair of them would be nothing but an irritating memory, joining many others. In the meantime, a nice cool drink would be welcome.

She went to the fridge and opened the door to see several bottles of sports drinks filling up the top shelf – obviously Ned's provisions. She sighed and closed the door. Ned was standing right behind it.

“Vicky forgot her wallet,” he said with a smirk, enjoying her surprise at his reappearance.

Root watched him walk through the living room and up the stairs before turning to survey the kitchen counter. The knife block was perched next to the bread bin about three feet away from her. She moved closer to it, then got a glass from the cupboard and filled it with cold water from the tap. When she turned back around, Ned was standing there again.

“See you tomorrow,” he smiled, turning to head out the back door. “Get some sleep, huh?”

Root stiffened in alarm as Ned unexpectedly stopped, doubled back and returned to the kitchen.

“Oh, I meant to ask you something,” he said. “Do you happen to know anyone from a place called Bishop?”

“From where?” Root replied, feigning ignorance.

“Little place a ways east of here called Bishop. Ever been there?”

“Nope.”

“Oh well, that's strange. I thought you might know someone from there. What was her name ... oh yeah, that's it. Samantha Groves.”

Root felt her muscles tighten. Her heart began to beat faster and faster until the sound of it was practically thundering in her ears. But she kept her expression calm, her mouth relaxed. She took a slow breath in and shrugged.

“Never heard of her.”

Ned smiled and nodded.

“Of course not. Must be a mix up of some kind.”

He turned and walked out the door, then down the driveway to the car where Vicky sat, waiting impatiently. As soon as they drove off, Root ran up the stairs to her bedroom, the adrenaline screaming through her body.

She began grabbing her things and hurriedly stuffing them into a bag. How had he found out? Did she leave some documentation behind? Damn. Oh well, she'd have to leave the postmortem for later. Now, it was time to move. She picked up her backpack, then began rifling through the books on her bookshelf. No, she wouldn't be able to take them all with her. She'd have to travel light – lighter than before, anyway. But she'd take this book for sure, she told herself as she pulled her Lewis Carroll collection from the shelf.

The book was a hard cover she'd neglected to return to the library years ago. It suddenly occurred to her that she had no need of the thing, having reread it so many times she could probably recite most of it by heart. Still, as the book fell open in her hands, she couldn't help gazing at the illustration next to the poem _Jabberwocky._ A sickening thought then flashed through her mind and she hurriedly turned to the very back of the book, just inside the cover.

There it was. That name. The one she thought she'd left behind with all the bitter memories tangled inside it. Tangled with Hanna. With her mother. With the cheap shoes and the empty booze bottles and that hideous screen door.

She snapped the book shut and stuffed it into her backpack. Ned had obviously been snooping through her stuff. She suspected he snooped through Vicky's things as well, taking things he fancied like ski gloves and lacy underwear. Maybe he'd been creeping around in Mitchell's room as well. Yes, probably.

Root sat down on her bed, suddenly overcome with everything that had happened. An immense tiredness overtook her and she stretched out, laying her head on the pillow. It was late and she didn't want to be acting rashly. She needed to think things through before taking action. For her sake, for Mitchell's, maybe even for Vicky's. She slept for several hours.

The next day, Root went to a medical clinic downtown, complaining about back and neck pain. She emerged with a prescription for heavy duty pain killers and muscle relaxants. Then she found a cozy internet cafe where she enjoyed a black coffee while she finished setting up the bank accounts for her next identity. She made an online order for a nice laptop, which would be waiting for her when she arrived at her new location. Finally, she transferred enough money to cover two years of tuition into Mitchell's bank account.

That done, she returned to the house, where Ned and Vicky were heading out for dinner, as was their usual Saturday night routine. Vicky would be spending most of the next day at the library, working on her thesis, while Ned reserved Sundays for his “super workouts” of running and weight training.

It was about two o'clock the following afternoon when Root descended the stairs into the basement. Ned was busy setting up a 200-pound barbell on his bench press, but he smirked upon seeing her.

“Vicky got a call from Mitchell's parents this morning,” he said. “He's dropping out. Can't hack it, obviously.”

“Hack. What a funny word,” Root said, moving closer to the bench. “Maybe he just needs a break.”

Ned scoffed and took a long swig from a bottle of his sports drink. Then he sat down on his bench and reclined under the barbell.

“Let me tell you something about people, Shannon,” he said, grabbing the bar. “There are two kinds.”

He exhaled and then did three presses on the barbell before lowering it back onto the rack above his head. Root handed him his drink bottle.

“Thanks,” he said, taking another long drink. “Aaah, that's good.”

He grabbed the bar again and continued his explaining.

“There are winners and there are losers.”

He did two more presses.

“Aaahhh. And your buddy Mitchell is a fucking loser.”

Root handed him the bottle again and watched as he drained it. Then he dropped the empty bottle on the floor and returned his hands to the bar.

“He can't help it,” he continued. “It's what he is. But Vicky doesn't need to have someone like him around her.”

Ned grunted and pushed up on the barbell again. Root smiled.

“You know Ned, there's a third kind of person,” she said.

He grunted, his arms shook a little and he strained to hold the weight.

“That's the kind of person who thinks that he's a winner and that everyone else is a loser. But he's wrong.”

“Spotter ...” Ned gasped. “Spotter... spot ... help!”

Root stood and watched as Ned struggled to regain control of the weight, but his weakening arms allowed the bar to gradually drop lower until it was resting on his chest, pinning him to the bench. His pale, watery eyes were almost popping as he gasped and sputtered with rage and terror, but his desperate struggling merely forced the bar to roll backwards, onto his windpipe.

“Well, I'd love to stick around and gurgle with you Ned,” Root told him calmly. “But I've got to move on now. Places to see, books to return, you know how it is.”

She walked back up the stairs as the sounds of Ned's final, choking gasps filled the basement. She took a few minutes to empty the remaining drink bottles from the fridge and rinse them out. Wouldn't want someone else to inadvertently swallow a huge dose of dangerous, stupefying drugs.

Zipping up her backpack, she caught a glimpse of the old library book inside. It was big and heavy. She'd have to toss it when she had a chance, along with the empty prescription bottle. Any regrets about Shannon Hopper and her brief, brutal existence had already been disposed of.

////////////////////////////


	5. Social Engineering

Shaw looked out the rain-streaked window and chewed. She was chewing on two different things, the stuff in her mouth and the stuff on her mind. The stuff in her mouth was spicy beef shawarma with hot sauce and she loved the way it was burning her throat on the way down. The wrap was good too, soaking up all the juices from the meat and the sauce but still allowing some of it to linger on her lips and drip onto her fingers. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, resting an elbow on the counter of the sandwich joint as she surveyed the busy street.

The stuff on her mind was as messy as the wrap she held in her hand. First, there was the latest number, an easy-going single guy who worked as a dog walker. Shaw was watching him right now as he met a friend for coffee at a cafe across the street. She'd made sure of running into him several times in the neighborhood park, with Bear as part of her friendly girl-next-door cover. It had been quite easy to engage the man in conversation but she'd had trouble moving him toward a more personal relationship where he'd confide in her. This lack of traction was frustrating Shaw.

She finished off the remnants of her shawarma and licked her fingers as she went over the last week in her head. She'd never had much trouble attracting men when she wished to. But now her heart just wasn't in it. And she had a pretty good idea about why that was so, although she hated to admit it.

Two days ago, she'd had a phone call from Root but there was a lot of static on the line and she couldn't make out anything she was saying. Shaw was pretty sure the call had come from another country, probably from the other side of the world, but it was hard to tell. She hoped Root wasn't in trouble. Oh for God's sake, of course she was in trouble. She was never out of it.

Shaw slipped off her stool, wiped her hands on her tight black jeans and headed outside into the drizzle, opening an umbrella and turning right to avoid passing too close to where the number was sitting. She'd double back in a few minutes and pass the cafe on the other side of the street, so she could casually look in the window, spot him and wave. If he seemed agreeable, she'd stop and make small talk, maybe get him warmed up enough to ask her out. If he didn't, she'd probably have to ask him out herself. She was explaining this strategy to Finch as she walked.

“Don't come on too strong, Ms. Shaw,” he cautioned. “You might scare him away.”

“What do you mean, too strong?” Shaw scowled. “I think I know how to pick up, thank you very much.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Finch said quickly. “It's just that you can be a little .... um...”

“A little what?”

“Intense.”

Shaw huffed. Intense my ass, she thought, crossing the street and slowing her pace. She had to remind herself to stop frowning and to smile as she neared the coffee shop. Still, who smiles when it's raining? She slowed, looked in the window, saw the number and waved. He looked up and smiled, waved back. She folded up her umbrella and went inside.

“Easy does it,” said Finch in her earpiece.

“I got this,” Shaw replied before greeting the man and his friend.

She was soon sitting at their little table, ordering a mocha latte, chatting them up. An hour later she left the cafe with a date set for Saturday night -- with the man's friend.

It had stopped raining but there were lots of puddles. Shaw didn't bother avoiding them as she headed back to base, the umbrella tucked under her arm. It wasn't like her to let personal feelings affect her work. But her concern – no -- her actual worry over Root was bleeding into everything lately.

Finch had obviously noticed, though he hadn't come right out and said so. And the other day, she was pretty sure she spotted Reese tailing her as she walked home, though he disappeared quickly when she tried to get a better look. Damn. They were starting to doubt her focus.

Shaw began assessing the problem in her mind. Of course, The Machine was looking out for Root, but what if it couldn't protect her? What if something went wrong and Root was vulnerable? Shaw gritted her teeth. She should have insisted on going with Root, wherever the hell it was that she went. It was so infuriating the way Root always tried to do everything herself, keeping all her plans so secretive and mysterious. She's going to get herself killed one day, Shaw thought, and I won't be there. The starkness of that thought was just beginning to sink in when she heard Finch's voice in her ear.

“I'm getting the feeling that you just aren't his type, Ms. Shaw,” he said. “Maybe be we should have sent in someone else. It's too bad Ms. Groves ...”

“Don't say it,” Shaw replied briskly, cutting him off in mid-sentence.

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Root tried again to loosen the bonds on her wrists, but the skin there was already raw from the friction of her efforts. She wondered if there was blood. She couldn't tell because her hands were behind her back, tied to the chair. There was blood on her face, for sure. She could taste it on her lips and in her mouth every time the woman questioning her slapped her. The questions themselves were of the basic “Where's the money?” variety but there was the odd curve ball, like “Is it time yet?” or “Who are you really?”

She didn't answer any of the questions directly. She just smiled, or tried to. Sometimes she'd say something flirtatious and that would earn her another slap. She could tell when there was going to be a slap because the woman would grit her teeth and take a breath and then draw her arm back. Root would feel the excitement build in the pit of her stomach just before she felt the sting of the slap across her face, and then she'd let her whole body go limp and she'd slump in her chair. Once the woman hit her so hard she almost passed out. But she soon felt strong hands grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her roughly, a voice ordering her to wake up. And then Root opened her eyes and smiled and the questions resumed.

Did her interrogator know how sexually arousing this whole game had become? Root guessed not. She whimpered and moaned, pretending to plead for mercy, but holy fuck was this making her hot. The woman had dark hair, cruel eyes, and an accent Root couldn't place, and her dark uniform shirt had come open at the top two buttons. Root could see the pulse throbbing in her tormentor's neck, the perspiration beading on her skin, the curve of her breast just barely visible inside the open collar. Their eyes met again and Root licked her lips.

“Please ...” she murmured.

The other woman lifted Root's chin with one hand and stood there for a moment, studying her. Then she placed her other hand on Root's face and swept back her tangled hair before leaning down and kissing her full on the mouth. Root began to moan as she returned the kiss, feeling the woman's hands make her way down her body. She soon had Root's blouse torn open and was kissing her bare skin, her shoulders, her breasts. The chair fell backwards but Root felt no pain, only the wooden chair breaking apart as her hands were freed. She couldn't move however, since the dark woman now had her pinned to the floor, arms outstretched. Root struggled for just a few brief moments before an orgasm shot through her, leaving her in blissful exhaustion.

The other woman got to her feet, grabbed Root's arms and dragged her towards the wall, where she chained her wrists again. She then picked up another chair and sat down on it, facing Root. She straightened her uniform shirt and swept a strand of hair behind her ear, then smiled.

“Where's Algernon?” she asked.

“What?” Root asked, her breath coming in short gasps.

“Where's Hanna? Where's Trent Russell? Where's your mom?” the woman asked, standing up and pushing the chair aside.

Root sighed and let her head fall back against the wall.

“Where's Ned Sacopa?” the woman drew her arm back.

“Fuck Ned Sacopa,” Root answered.

There was a piercing sound then. An alarm. A fucking irritating, beeping alarm. Root opened her eyes and turned over in bed, reaching out to turn off the annoying sound. Shit. Seven o'clock already. She got up and made her way to the shower, trying to hold on to the dream she'd just experienced. She knew she'd had the dream before. The same interrogation room, the same dark woman, the same awesome, horny feeling washing over her. Sometimes there was the relief of an orgasm afterwards, sometimes not. Root stepped into the shower and turned on the warm water.

The pleasure she took in the scenario of physical punishment was no surprise. She'd harbored such fantasies for a while, although she hadn't yet acted on them in real life. In her dreams however, she'd played both sides and enjoyed them. It was the actual questions themselves that she found curious. Why was she thinking about Hanna after all this time? She'd taken care of Russell and his stupid wife, the librarian. She'd had about as much revenge as she was likely to get.

As for her mother, Root had mixed feelings. It had been almost three years since her mom died. She'd provided a home, although not a very happy one, and the odd bit of advice, such as telling her daughter to follow her talents. Well, she was certainly doing that now, wasn't she?

Root finished her shower, wrapped herself in a towel and began getting ready for work. She had been working on infiltrating the network of a Fortune 500 company and it was proving to be much easier than she'd anticipated. The company's lax security was astounding. She had managed to get a position in the human resources department and soon gained access to the company's internal system. Gathering passwords was as simple as taking a walk around the office. Most of the employees had their passwords stuck to their computer monitors on Post-It notes. Duh.

She applied her makeup and got dressed quickly, choosing a navy business suit with pumps. Her nail polish had to be conservative and business-like as well, so she usually went with a pale or nude color. She was looking forward to the day when she could return to the black polish she favored. She never really felt like herself until she painted it on.

One of her more recent projects had allowed her to express herself a bit more authentically. It was a dot-com startup that had expanded rapidly, but its executives prided themselves on being young and hip. Root's initial reconnaissance involved scouring the execs' social media accounts, which told her exactly when they'd all be leaving to attend a week-long conference overseas. She showed up at the company headquarters the next day in her leather jacket, black nails, jeans and ankle boots, saying she was the new IT consultant. The employees allowed her to use the CFO's office computer to do her so-called “security check.” She was in and out of the place in one day. Mission accomplished.

The current job was taking a little longer but Root was planning to be finished by the end of the week. Then she'd disappear without a trace, something she'd become quite proficient at. It helped that she'd learned to travel light. All she really needed was a few personal items and a laptop. Even then, if she was missing any particular item, she could easily get a new one. She could hack a bank account, a cellphone, an email account – any account, really. She could make do with a basic wardrobe of two or three pieces. She kept her makeup light. And she always made sure she had gloves with her so that she didn't leave any fingerprints.

She preferred black gloves because they reminded her of the ones that had been in her grandmother's drawer. But of course, she couldn't wear gloves around the office, so she was sure to carry a package of wet wipes and let her co-workers know she was a germaphobe. Each day before she left her office, she wiped down every surface.

There was one other thing Root had started carrying -- a gun. It had already come in handy a couple of times and she suspected it would be needed again. She picked up her handbag and threw in a lipstick, the gloves, the gun and her keys, pausing only to check out her look in the hallway mirror. She tossed her head to flip the hair away from her face, then smiled at the result.

Show time.

//////////////////////////////////////////////////

“Four-alarm fire! Four-alarm fire! Baby, you're so hot you're my burning desire!”

The glasses were rattling on the tables around the bar as the band kicked off what seemed like the 20th repeat of the song's off-key chorus. Shaw rolled her eyes and took another long sip of her scotch. This band sucked. But she had only stopped in for a quick drink and planned to leave soon anyway.

She felt like she needed to be somewhere noisy and crowded after the evening she'd had. Her date with the friend of the number had turned out to be much more interesting than she expected. In fact, it didn't take her too long to figure out that the friend was the actual threat. He had been planning to abscond with all the money from the dog-walking business and worse still, planned to steal some of the more valuable dogs and either sell or ransom them. It had been almost comical watching Reese sic Bear on the scoundrel as he tried to escape.

Oh well, another number saved. Shaw gulped down the last of her scotch and started to get up, but the bartender stopped her by placing a fresh drink in front of her.

“From your friend,” he mouthed over the cacophony of sound, nodding towards the end of the bar.

Shaw didn't want to look and she certainly didn't want to feel her heart jump in her chest the way it did when she turned her head. There was the smile. And the wink too. Wow, both at once. Shaw tried to look as bored and uninterested as possible but that just seemed to encourage her admirer. Shaw looked back at her drink, counted the seconds, three, two, one ...”

“She told me I'd find you here,” Root said, sliding onto the stool next to Shaw. “I said 'No, she hates this kind of place.' But here you are.”

“Where have you been?” Shaw asked, suddenly hating the way that sounded.

“Here, there and everywhere,” Root replied, sipping on her own drink. “Hey that would be a good title for a song. Better than this one anyway.”

Root turned to look at the band, then looked back at Shaw with a smirk and a raised brow.

“Yes, it would be, “ Shaw smiled back, finally. “Much better.”

“So? Did you ...”

“Miss you? Yes, I did, strangely enough.”

Their eyes locked for a few brief seconds, then Shaw began to smile again and Root leaned in just a little as Shaw met her halfway, capturing her mouth in a tender kiss.

//////////////////


	6. Entanglement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting. I haven't been home much lately, due to summertime traveling. Hope you like this chapter.

It was the church bells that woke her in the morning, but it was the sound of the birds that drew her from the bed and toward the large floor-length window. She moved one of the long drapes aside, gently, so as not to spill too much sunlight into the quiet room.

The scene before her was so glorious, so picturesque, she didn't think any artist, anywhere, no matter how adept, could ever quite capture it. A sun-kissed blue sky provided the backdrop as the little village spread out below the hotel window came to life, with people heading down the cobblestone streets toward the shops. Dogs trotted here and there and the odd car or truck trundled by slowly.

She smiled and drank it in, then closed her eyes, hoping she could somehow burn the image into her memory, so that she could call it up at will whenever she wanted to feel perfect happiness again.

The only thing missing was ... oh yes, there it was. Those arms slipping gently around her waist, the warm body of her lover embracing her from behind. Then that soft, lilting voice. Jessie's voice.

“Good morning my love.”

Lulu smiled and turned her head slightly as they kissed.

“Morning, darling. Quite the view, isn't it?”

Jessie fixed her smouldering gaze on Lulu, taking in her curvaceous body, her warm brown eyes and auburn hair.

“Looks pretty damn good from where I'm standing,” she said, tugging playfully at Lulu's hand. “Like one of those Pre-Raphaelite paintings. Come back to bed.”

Even the idyllic scene outside could not compete with that invitation. The two young women fell back into their bed, where they spent the rest of the morning, a habit they'd gotten into during this summer jaunt through Europe.

The afternoons were devoted to exploring the little village, wandering the narrow streets arm in arm, enjoying dinner on the patio of a cafe or going for a swim before relaxing together on the beach with a picnic basket and a bottle of wine. It was romantic, intoxicating and perfect. Years later, Lulu would look back on this summer as the happiest of her life. Like so many young people in love, she made the mistake of thinking her happiness would last forever.

She and Jessie had met in New York, where Lulu was working as a freelance photographer and Jessie was an emerging talent on the jazz scene. A gifted pianist, singer and songwriter, she had left her home in the segregated south in order to pursue her dream of a career in music. An assignment to shoot a spread featuring up and coming “colored” artists – as defined by the terminology of the day -- had put the lovely, green-eyed Jessie right smack dab in the middle of Lulu's lens. Their attraction was immediate. But demanding work schedules meant they had very little time together. Lulu's work took her to London a few weeks later, and Jessie soon followed.

Lulu had been in the middle of a fashion shoot when Jessie, disguised in a wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses, walked in, pretending to be one of the models. When she removed her hat with a flourish, Lulu almost dropped her camera. After that, they were inseparable. As soon as Lulu finished her assignment, the two of them took off for the continent.

How lovely it was to be together as a couple. They often held hands and no one seemed to notice or care. In some places, such as Paris, they saw other lesbian couples. And even better, there was an exciting gay nightlife. It was so liberating to be themselves there, something they'd never be able to do back home. They often talked about relocating to Europe, among other things.

“Wouldn't it be wonderful if we could get married,” Jessie said one morning as they lounged in bed, after returning to their favorite hotel in Paris.

“We were married the minute we met,” Lulu replied, kissing her. “That's all that matters.”

“Yeah,” Jessie said, stroking Lulu's long hair. “I love you, baby.”

“I'm hungry,” Lulu replied, pretending not to hear. She soon broke into laughter as Jessie began swatting her with a pillow. “OK, OK, I love you too! Stop it!”

They dressed and went downstairs to a little sidewalk cafe, where they ordered lunch. It was a beautiful spring day and Jessie began singing “I love Paris in the spring time” very softly as they sat at the table, holding hands. Suddenly, she stopped and a look of fear clouded her eyes.

“What's wrong?” Lulu asked, following Jessie's gaze.

It centered on a middle-aged man in a suit sitting at another table at the far side of the cafe. He appeared to be reading a newspaper. Then he looked up slowly, made brief eye contact with Jessie, and smiled.

“Oh my God,” Jessie whimpered. “I can't believe it. He found me.”

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Reese settled into a sniper's position on the platform just below the train trestle and peered through his hand-held scope into the apartment across the street. It was late, it had been dark for quite some time and he had considered giving up and going home. But now, there seemed to be some activity inside. He closed one eye and looked again. A light went on. Yes, it was Shaw, dressed in her standard black tank top and shorts, getting something from the fridge. Then she was at the sink, drinking a glass of water.

She got another glass, filled it and made her way back to the other room. She appeared to be speaking to someone. Reese's scope revealed what he suspected: someone else was there, in the bed.

“Aha,” Reese said out loud. “She's got company. The overnight guest variety.”

“I'm not sure I feel comfortable continuing this surveillance, Mr. Reese,” came Finch's voice in his earpiece. “Although it does explain her seeming distraction lately.”

“Wait a minute,” Reese said.

He watched as Shaw handed the glass to the person who was now sitting up in the bed. It didn't take Reese long to figure out who it was. Shaw took the glass back, placed it on the night table, then pushed the other woman down on the bed and began kissing her, moving forcefully onto her struggling, supine body. Then the two of them then rolled over, taking the bed sheets with them. More struggling followed, with Shaw eventually pinning her lover down and attacking her neck with another flurry of kisses. From what Reese could see before the light was flicked off, their love-making was playful but rather on the rough side. Which is about what he would expect from the two of them.

“Uh, well,” Reese finally replied. “It explains a lot more than that, Finch. I'll fill you in when I get back.”

He couldn't help smiling as he packed up his gear and began climbing down from his clandestine perch. He liked the idea of Root and Shaw as a couple. Partly because they were both pretty damn hot and looked pretty damn good together. And also because he couldn't imagine anyone else putting up with either one of them.

///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, four ... Root ended up paying for more than a dozen tequila shots and she took the whole tray back to the table where her work colleagues were waiting. She had to admit, the Karen Iverson cover was one of her favorites. Journalists worked hard but they also loved to socialize, especially at the local watering hole, conveniently located across the street from the office. It was almost unbelievable the shit they would tell you. You could also find the odd one who enjoyed deep, passionate, brainy conversation about music or science fiction and others who could tell you the best restaurant in town to get great Chinese food. And when it came to coffee, well forget it. They all knew where to get the best, cheapest, fastest cup of joe. Karen Iverson fit right in.

She had been in this job for about six months, which was practically a lifetime career in Root's books. But there was no need to move fast this time. She was doing research and biding her time until her next big contract. Besides, her boss liked her and she had a flexible schedule, plus plenty of other perks that made it easy to operate the way she pleased, without fear of being discovered. She could wear black nail polish, gain access to targets with her press credentials and chat up the IT guys. The glasses gave her a studious appearance that helped sell her as a quiet, brainy type. So far, so good. She was even making some headway with the copy chief, a curmudgeonly type who was legendary for the scathing criticism he could fling across the newsroom. The other day, he had actually smiled at her.

Root placed the tray of shots on the crowded table top and slid into a spot on the banquette next to Janine, an investigative reporter at the paper who'd become Karen Iverson's closest friend. The shots were quickly plucked from the tray and dispensed with following a cursory toast and various conversations resumed around the table. But the only conversation Root was interested in was the one going on between her and Janine.

Her new friend had just received several file boxes of declassified government documents going back to the 1950s. This after filing a Freedom of Information request for access to the documents more than a year ago.

“The wheels of bureaucracy grind slowly,” Root said, placing her empty shot glass back on the tray.

“The gears aren't going to turn much faster on this end either,” said Janine. “I've got five of those boxes to sort through. I could use some help.”

Root arched an eyebrow. “Are you offering a double byline?”

“Same deal as before,” Janine replied. “I write the piece, I get top line. You'll be doing research mostly. Maybe some leg work.”

“Suits me,” Root said with a smile. “I've got two good legs.”

“I know. I've seen them.”

“You could see them again tonight.”

Janine eyed her colleague shrewdly, or tried to. She wasn't sure exactly what it was about Karen that both attracted and frightened her. She was smart, there was no doubt about that. And she was cute in that mysterious, nerdy, bookish kind of way that Janine had always found sexy -- sort of a post-punk Alice in Wonderland, if you want a clever description. Maybe it was the glasses.

But there was something else underneath it all, something edgy and dangerous that made Janine wary of letting Karen get too close. They'd already shared a bed a few times after working together on assignments. That was no big deal to Janine, who liked having a fuck buddy and didn't mind if it was someone she worked with.

Of course, it helped that Karen enjoyed deep, philosophical conversations. In fact, there had been many occasions when the two of them had stayed up into the wee hours, drinking red wine or sometimes Irish whiskey while debating the merits of Hemingway, Steinbeck and Fitzgerald. Other times they talked about science fiction movies and whether the principles of quantum mechanics were being properly applied, and whether it even mattered, since so very few people could understand that branch of physics anyway.

“You know what they say about quantum physics?” Karen would ask. “If you think you understand it, you probably don't.”

“OK then,” Janine would answer. “I fucking don't.”

Sometimes when they got deeply involved in discussing such things, Janine noticed that Karen would get this odd glint in her eye and would begin talking with an almost evangelical fervor about the strangest things. Artificial intelligence – no wait – artificial super-intelligence. A technological singularity. It would be the dawning of a new age, the next step in human evolution, or at least that's how Karen described it.

“Yeah, right,” Janine would find herself saying out loud, or maybe just in her head. “Where did I put that weed again? I think we overdid it with the wine.”

And then she'd succumb to that look Karen would give her, when her mouth would look so soft and her eyes so damn dreamy, and Janine would have no choice but to lean forward and kiss her and just let the rest of it happen.

Kind of the way Karen was looking at her now, with that crooked smile.

Oh fuck it.

Karen had already slid out of the banquette and was now standing there waiting, one hand extended, while the others at the table chattered away, oblivious to the dance of seduction that was being enacted under their noses.

Janine nodded sagely, finished off the last of her beer and got up, letting her hand rest in Karen Iverson's palm as the two of them drifted out of the bar and into the street, heading home.

//////////////////////////


	7. The Black Chamber

Janine opened her eyes and checked the digital clock on the nightstand. Nine-thirty in the morning. Shit. She'd meant to get up earlier than that. Oh well, it was only Saturday anyway. She lay there for a moment, trying to get her bearings before hauling her ass out of bed. Last night, last night ... oh yes, now she remembered the events of the previous evening.

Even if she hadn't remembered, the queasy feeling in her stomach would have provided enough of a clue. She shouldn't have opened that bottle of whiskey after bringing Karen back to her place. Whiskey, beer, tequila ... then a shot of ouzo and God knows what else. Mixing it up like an amateur. She should know better by now.

She got up and felt her stomach lurch. Damn. She really should know better, she told herself. But she and Karen had become immersed in one of their intense conversations and they'd been sprawled on the couch with their bodies entangled this way and that. Karen, glasses removed, had one arm draped along the back of the couch as her fingers gently brushed Janine's shoulder, her hair, her ear lobe. All this while Janine rested one bent knee against Karen's thigh and slowly moved her foot up and down along the calf of Karen's leg. There they lounged together, talking softly, their eyes drinking each other in as their minds converged. Or at least, that's how it felt. It really did feel like falling into another person's mind. How could you not kiss when all of that was going on?

Karen was very good at kissing, which earned her top marks in Janine's books. She judged her lovers on a few key qualities, one of which would be their ability to get the fuck gone when she needed her space. The other requirements were a decent intellect, a good sense of humor and most importantly, a pleasing mouth, to be used first of all for the purpose of intellectual discourse and then, if that went well, for a lengthy session of slow, deep kissing and then, after that, for bringing Janine to orgasm. Karen proved a star at every turn.

She also made a hell of a cup of coffee. Janine was already sensing the pleasant aroma wafting from the kitchen as she made her way out of the bedroom. OK, quick stop in the bathroom first, then on to the living room where Karen was sitting on the floor with several open boxes and stacks of files and documents spread out around her.

“What are you doing?” Janine frowned.

“Good morning to you too,” Karen looked up and smiled.

The glasses were back, Janine saw, noting how perfectly the dark frames suited the angles of Karen's face. God, did she have any idea how cute she was, bent over her work, that tiny frown on her forehead? Tapping her pen on her knee like that? Yeah, she probably did.

“I thought I'd just get started on some of these files,” Karen said, rearranging her long legs and bringing one knee up under her arm. “I didn't want to wake you.”

Janine blinked and looked around. Well, that was what she'd asked Karen to do, wasn't it? Kind of silly to take her to task for her initiative. And it looked like there were hundreds of files there. An absolute shit-load.

“I made some coffee,” Karen said in a helpful if not altogether necessary way.

Yes, I can smell the damn coffee, Janine thought to herself as she shuffled into the kitchen and grabbed a mug. Then she realized that she was being a grouch and there was no reason for her to be that way, especially after last night. She stuck her head out of the kitchen.

“Thanks,” she called to Karen, holding up the mug. “You want some?”

“I've got one here,” Karen answered. “I'm good for now.”

Janine came back out with her coffee and sat on the couch, taking in the scene before her. It looked like Karen had been busy for a good couple of hours. There were several distinct piles, neatly stacked on the floor.

“So, what have we got here? Found anything good?” Janine asked, leaning over to pick up a yellowed, tattered document that appeared to be some kind of government form. The paper was quite thin and the print difficult to read.

“So far, I've got three categories,” Karen said, pointing at each pile in turn. “The stuff that's useless crap, which is here, the stuff that may be important, which is this stuff here and the stuff that needs a really good comb through, which is this big pile here.”

“Aha,” said Janine, eyeing the last pile. “That's quite the pile needing a comb through.”

“Yeah, it's going to take some time to determine if any of it is valuable,” Karen said. “Lots of reading.”

“But you love reading,” Janine said dryly. “Besides, that's what you're here for. Well, that and the other thing.”

Janine felt herself blush when she made that last comment, which was quite strange because she rarely felt embarrassed about sex. She realized that her sudden, blurted-out remark could be taken as an insult or perhaps an attempt at flirtatiousness, although not a very good one. Still, the response from Karen was a simple smile and a raised eyebrow. No blushing from her. Damn.

“Sorry,” Janine mumbled, dropping the document onto the pile it had come from.

“Forget it,” answered Karen. “I'm only here for the coffee.”

Janine knelt down next to her on the floor and picked up a file folder, quickly scanning its contents.

“Did you bring your laptop?” she asked Karen. “The first thing we'll have to do is cross-reference any names we find. Check to see if any of them are important. People in the news, celebrities, politicians, activists, anything that rings a bell.”

“You got it chief,” Karen replied. She stood up and went to fetch her laptop bag, pulling out the device and plugging it in.

She was soon immersed in her work, paying little attention as Janine walked over to her own PC in the corner and turned it on. As it booted up, Janine went back into the kitchen, grabbing the half-empty bottle of Irish whiskey from the sideboard and taking it with her. She refilled her coffee mug, adding a shot of whiskey, then another good shot.

“Hair of the dog,” Janine said to herself, remembering the old bit of folk wisdom. Was it just superstition, or did it have some scientific merit? She seemed to recall that it did. Oh, who the fuck cares.

She set down the bottle, screwed the cap back on and took a deep gulp from her mug, enjoying the soothing warmth as the liquid washed down her throat, leaving a burning bitterness.

////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

It was quite a struggle for Lulu to keep up with Jessie as they fled the sidewalk cafe. The streets were narrow and mostly cobble-stoned and Jessie had long, athletic legs and Lulu did not. She could see Jessie up ahead of her, practically running, her white cotton dress with the green flowers fluttering breezily behind her as she went. How could she make it over these stones in those heels, Lulu wondered. And, oh yeah, who the hell was that man whose appearance had upset her so?

She finally caught up to Jessie in the doorway of a patisserie, where she'd stopped to hide and to catch her breath.

“What's going on? Who was that man?” Lulu asked, grasping Jessie's hand.

There was no answer, just Jessie's tear-stained face buried in her neck as she pulled Lulu into a desperate embrace, her body shaking as she cried. Lulu's arms went around Jessie and she kissed her hair and smoothed it with her hands, as though that could somehow soothe the worry and fear she saw in her lover's eyes.

“We have to leave,” Jessie said finally, when she'd managed to calm herself enough to speak. “We have to get away.”

She began to pull Lulu with her, glancing nervously down the street to ensure the coast was clear.

“Just a minute. First we'll have to go back to the hotel for our things,” Lulu said.

“No, we can't. We have to go, now.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Lulu protested, holding onto her lover's wrists. “My cameras are there and our passports and everything else, and I'm not doing a damn thing until you tell me who that man was.”

Her eyes met Jessie's and they stood for a moment like that before Jessie sighed in resignation.

“OK, I'll tell you. But we can't go back until we're sure he's gone. Maybe we can get into the hotel through the back way.”

“This is getting scary,” said Lulu.

“You have no idea,” Jessie replied.

When they got back to their room, Jessie fell into an armchair, her head in her hands.

“How did he find me?” she repeated over and over, shaking her head.

“Is he your husband?” Lulu asked pointedly, though she dreaded hearing the answer.

“What? No!”

“Your ex-husband? Boyfriend?”

“God, no. You've got it all wrong,” Jessie said, reaching out for Lulu's hands. “He's nothing like that.”

Lulu moved closer so that her hands were in Jessie's, then sat down in the other armchair facing her.

“So tell me.”

//////////////////////////////////////////////

Field report. Classified. September 12, 1958.

Agent X (name redacted)

Subject: Jessica Turkle

The subject was approached on college campus in Washington, D.C. on February 24, 1955 and again on October 28, 1955, at which time the subject was recruited by agent as an informant. The subject provided low-level information on civil rights activists on campus and was subsequently placed in New York City, tasked with ongoing operations. The agent was able to use leverage to obtain more co-operation from subject. Subject was then engaged to carry coded messages.

The subject works in the arts and has contacts in the entertainment business in New York and Europe. She would be a valuable asset in this area. She is involved in a lesbian relationship with an American photographer identified as Lauren Groves. (See separate file.) Photographs attached.

The agent believes leverage can be further applied to maintain the subject's co-operation in future scenarios. The agent recommends continuing operation of the subject.

Report is stamped as received and signed by supervisor. September, 1958.

/////////////////////////////////////////////

“You were a spy?” Lulu was aghast.

“No, no, I didn't ... I didn't want anything to do with it,” Jessie said. “He tricked me.”

“What did he do, exactly?”

Jessie swallowed hard and leaned forward in her chair. Lulu got up and fetched her a glass of water. Jessie took a sip, then related her story.

“I met him during my sophomore year at college. He introduced himself using a name that I later found out was fake. Anyway, he said he'd attended a concert where I'd performed and that he wanted to manage me. He said he thought he could get me some gigs, maybe even a recording contract. I was naive, I guess. I believed him.”

Lulu bit her lip and nodded. Jessie took another sip of water and continued.

“He took me out for cocktails at a club, said he knew the owner and could get me a booking there. Then he started asking me about my activities on campus, what groups and clubs I belonged to, what I had done with them. He just seemed interested.”

“I didn't hear from him for a few months,” Jessie said. “Then one day, he showed up on campus again. This time he told me what he really wanted – information. He wanted the dirt on some campus groups, especially the ones involved in civil rights activities, you know, marches, sit-ins at lunch counters, protests.”

“And what did you say?” Lulu asked.

“I said no way was I spying on people,” Jessie replied. “I tried to walk away but he stopped me, showed me this big envelope. It had photos in it.”

“He had something on you?”

“Yes. He knew that I was involved with my roommate, you know, romantically. I don't know how he got the pictures. I don't want to know. But he had them. He threatened to go to her parents with them. She came from a prominent family. There would have been a scandal, obviously, and she would have been expelled. We both would have.”

Lulu grasped Jessie's hand tightly but said nothing.

“So I agreed to get him some names, just to get him off my back. I tried to give him names he would have already had, you know, the people who were already known because they were the leaders. I didn't want to get people in trouble.”

“Was it enough to satisfy him?”

“Of course not,” Jessie sighed. “He kept pressing for more. He wanted to know if anything was being organized, that sort of thing. I gave him a little more information.”

“Oh, Jess....”

“Finally, I caught a break and the student groups I was involved in were disbanded. I think the people leading them suspected they'd been infiltrated. I was probably not the only informant. I thought about it and realized that if he'd been able to get that much on me, he probably had dirt on some other people as well.”

Jessie stood up and went to the window, looking out briefly before returning to the chair and sitting down.

“I didn't see him again for a while,” she said. “I started to think it might be over at last. But then one day, he showed up again. He said it had been decided that I should relocate, to New York.”

“Just like that?” asked Lulu.

“Yeah, I was stunned,” said Jessie. “But he said it was all taken care of. I'd have a nice place to stay -- an apartment was waiting for me -- and he promised to arrange some gigs for me as well. This time he actually came through.”

Jessie paused and smiled a bit, remembering those first few months living in Manhattan.

“It went well at first,” she said. “I had some decent gigs in Soho and Greenwich Village and people started paying attention. It wasn't long before I was playing nicer clubs. I really thought the worst was over and my career would take off. I tried to forget about what had happened before, to put it out of my mind. Anyway, as you can guess, just when things were starting to happen for me, he showed up again.”

“Did he ever tell you his real name?” Lulu asked.

“No,” answered Jessie. “He was just Mr. Black. A code name I guess.”

Jessie looked at Lulu and her jaw tightened. She hoped her story wouldn't change the way Lulu thought of her. But she wouldn't blame her if it did. She went on.

“He had even more on me now. Not only the thing with the college roommate, but the fact that I'd been spying on my fellow students. He could easily ruin my life if he wished.”

“So what did he want this time?” Lulu asked.

“He wanted me to get information on other artists and their managers. He was especially interested in people who were involved in political activities. I wasn't able to get much and I wasn't trying too hard either. At one point I was so desperate I considered making stuff up, just to appease him. But I realized that would just put other people in danger and that I'd be found out eventually. So, I just told him that I was working very hard on my performing and didn't have time to socialize and make those kind of connections.”

“Did he buy it?”

“I don't know. It didn't really matter because he had other plans for me by then. I was being booked into venues in other cities, which meant traveling. I had dates in San Francisco, Detroit, Paris, London, West Berlin, places like that where jazz was very popular. He decided I'd be perfect for carrying messages.”

“What do you mean? Messages for the spy network?”

“Exactly. He would come to my club at a certain time each week, sit at a certain table, order a drink. If he ordered a martini, he had a message for me. Any other drink meant he had nothing. So on the martini nights, I'd open it up for requests and he would write down the name of a song, give it to one of the cocktail waitresses, and she'd bring it up to me at the piano. The next day, I'd go to a certain downtown music store and look for the sheet music for that song. The coded message would be hidden in the score. I'd take it with me on my next trip, wherever that was, and I'd leave it at a dead drop.”

“So you never saw who picked it up?” asked Lulu.

“No, I was afraid. I didn't want to stick around and see who collected it. I have no idea what those messages were about or how they were decoded. And I'm pretty sure I don't want to know.”

Lulu sat quietly as Jessie finished her story.

“I did this for a while. I'm not proud of what I did, but I told myself it was for the good of the country. I hope it was.”

“So why is he after you now?”

Jessie's eyes met Lulu's briefly before she looked down at her hands.

“When I met you, everything changed. I decided that I needed to live my life on my own terms. That's why I followed you to London.”

She looked back up, searching Lulu's face for any sign of judgment or condemnation. Instead, she saw nothing but love in those warm brown eyes. So she continued.

“When you suggested we take off together, I saw it as a chance to escape him for good. To disappear. I never expected to see him here, of all places.”

Jessie suddenly began to weep again. “What are we going to do?” she cried.

Lulu knelt before her and took her hands again.

“We'll figure something out,” she said. “And we'll do it together, I promise. But there's one thing we are simply not going to do, OK?”

“What's that?” Jessie asked, wiping her eyes.

“Hide.”

//////////////////////////////


	8. The Greedy Algorithm

June 7, 1954

Memo to: Branch Director (name redacted)

From: Army Unit #113 Command

CLASSIFIED

Subject: 1st Lieutenant Lauren Groves

Requesting discharge papers be forwarded for the above mentioned Lieutenant Groves who has served as a nurse in the U.S. Army for three years. Lt. Groves wishes to leave the service in order to marry and plans to resume civilian life thereafter.

Lt. Groves has served at Fort Hood and at Walter Reed Army Medical Center in Bethesda (see attached service records). She was then seconded to Arlington, Virginia, where she has spent the last six months working as a code-breaker in a classified operation.

It is recommended that an honorable discharge be granted.

Stamped as received June 7, 1954.

///////////////////////////////////////

Root picked up the file folder and took it over to the small desk that was tucked into the corner of her storage locker, flicking on the small lamp there. The documents inside were decades-old and had turned a dingy color over the years. The one she was looking at now had a small black and white photo attached, along with some other records. The photo made her smile. It was her grandmother, looking so smart and official in her uniform. And so young. But yes, there she was with just the slightest hint of a smile, that mischievous twinkle in her eye. Ready for duty.

It wasn't the first time Root had seen the picture but she felt a tug at her heart upon seeing it again. She tried to imagine how Grandma would have been at that age, striking out to find a place for herself in the world, willing to take on the demands of a military life in the process. It was a vocation that Root had never once considered for herself. But now, here she was, working with people like Shaw and Reese, quietly admiring them for the sacrifices they'd made in order to serve, even if she didn't quite understand their reasons. She was learning things from them all the time, learning about them, about herself. That was one of Root's talents, being able to learn, integrate, adapt.

She smoothed out the documents, briefly skimmed them again to refresh her memory, then closed the file and walked back to the cardboard box she'd left open earlier.

It was the Karen Iverson box, the one where she kept all her ID and personal effects for that particular alias. Of course, she had other boxes, other aliases. Where better to keep them than in a storage unit signed out to another fake name? As long as the storage fees were paid up, no one would bother with her stuff and it allowed her to travel super-light, as she pleased. She reached into the box and retrieved her glasses, opened the frames, put them on. Almost immediately, she felt herself slip into the persona of the low-key journalist. She hadn't used that alias for a while, but who knows, it might be worth resurrecting at some point.

Digging into the box, she pulled out a few more files, carried them to the desk and flipped them open, then began leafing through the documents. Root frowned as she worked, turning each page carefully. Now where was it? Oh, yes, there it was. Root looked at the page with the redacted name of X at the top. Hello, you bastard.

“Have you seen this before?” she asked out loud, holding her phone over the document to scan the image.

“Just a moment... just a moment,” The Machine answered, using an audio clip that Root recognized immediately.

“HAL from 2001?” Root had to laugh. “Good one.”

“I. Pulled. It. From. The. Movie.” The Machine said, reverting to the usual pieced-together mechanical voice. “I. Thought. You. Might. Appreciate. The. Humor.”

“I do,” Root said. “ But I wouldn't be using that one on Harold. He might pull your plug.”

“I. Will. Keep. That. In. Mind.”

Root took more pictures of the documents in front of her, then paused, waiting for The Machine to finish searching.

“No. Previous. Digital. Files,” came the answer after a few seconds. “But. I. Did. Find. This. Newspaper. Article.”

Root looked at the image on her phone's screen. It was the article she'd co-written several years earlier about the declassified documents. Of course, Janine had done most of the writing, as agreed, and took top byline.

“Hmm, yes I've seen that one,” Root replied.

“Classified. Documents. From. The. 1950s. Are. Unlikely. To. Be. In. Any. Digital. Archives. At. This. Time.”

“That's pretty well what I figured.”

“What. Is. Your. Next. Step.”

“I'm working on it. I have a hunch. A strong one.”

“Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?” The Machine was playing HAL again.

Root raised an eyebrow and waited.

“Does. This. Hunch. Pertain. To. Our. Recent. Discussion. About. Shaw.”

Root sighed and began packing up the files.

“Yes,” she said. “But I still have some work to do before we can connect the dots.”

“And I want to help you.”

///////////////////////////////////////////////

While their unexpected encounter with Mr. Black had left both Jessie and Lulu quite shaken, they decided to play it cool for as long as possible. The following morning saw them at their regular sidewalk cafe, enjoying cafe au lait and croissants as though nothing had happened. It wasn't long before the man from the previous day reappeared and sat down at the same table where he'd been seated the afternoon before. The two women glanced at him, saw him smile and nod, ignored him.

He watched them for a while, then folded his newspaper, got up and walked over.

“Hello, Miss Turkle,” he said in a cheerful voice, not even bothering to greet her in French.

Jessie looked up and frowned.

“Hello,” she said. “Have we met?”

“Why yes, indeed,” he replied with a smile. “I saw you perform in America. Do you remember?”

“I'm afraid not,” Jessie said. “I've performed in many places in America. Though not lately.”

“Yes, yes, I believe it was in New York and you were quite outstanding,” he said. “May I sit?”

Jessie hesitated, then nodded, as she and Lulu watched the man pull up a chair and sit down. He continued as though nothing was amiss.

“I saw you here yesterday with your friend,” he said, nodding toward Lulu, “and I thought I should say hello, since I am quite a fan of your work.”

“Thank you,” said Jessie. “Is there a particular song you most enjoy? Or are you just a general aficionado of the jazz form?”

The ghost of a smile passed the man's lips as he shifted in his chair, then he nodded.

“Well, I certainly love your interpretation of _Young and Foolish_ ,” he said. “Perhaps you will be performing here in Paris some time in the not too distant future. I would love to hear it again.”

Jessie's jaw tightened and she felt Lulu touch her arm lightly, helping her focus and relax before she answered.

“No, I'm not performing here,” she said.

“Well, I certainly hope you'll reconsider,” he replied. “It would be such a shame if you didn't. A real shame.”

He picked up his newspaper and stood, moving back his chair.

“I plan to be in Paris for a few more days and it would be good if we could chat again tomorrow morning,” he said. “I'll be in the park across the street at about 10 o'clock.”

He motioned to a park bench on the other side of the street, then smiled again and said goodbye. Lulu and Jessie watched him walk away and disappear down a side street.

“Just act natural,” Lulu whispered. “Finish your coffee and don't be nervous. We'll see him tomorrow and find out what he wants.”

Sure enough, they found Mr. Black waiting for them on the park bench the next morning.

“Let's walk, shall we?” he said, standing up, and they began strolling through the park and along a path by the river. After a while, he addressed Jessie.

“It's hoped that your work will continue, Miss Turkle,” he said. “It's necessary and as they say, someone has to do it.”

“Well, I don't want to do it. I've had a change of heart,” Jessie said, glancing at Lulu.

“That's understandable,” Mr. Black replied. “Maybe we can work something out. You are a photographer, aren't you Miss Groves?”

“Yes,” Lulu replied. “Freelance.”

“Lots of traveling in that job I suppose,” he said. “And you carry a lot of equipment. Lenses, film canisters, that type of thing.”

“Of course,” Lulu said. “What's that got to do with...”

“He wants you to smuggle things in your cases,” Jessie whispered to her. “Films with coded messages probably.”

“Yes, that would be one way of doing it,” Mr. Black said, overhearing them. “It would work quite well, in fact.”

“Are you crazy?” Jessie asked, trying to contain her outrage. “What if her cases are searched or her film is pulled out and examined? It's too risky.”

“Everything carries some kind of risk,” he said, looking not at Jessie but ahead at the path before them. “Either you assume the risk or your lover does. It doesn't surprise me that you'd want to protect her. That's what people do when they're in love, isn't it?”

“You manipulative bastard,” Jessie growled at him under her breath, despite Lulu's tightening grip on her arm.

Mr. Black stopped and turned to face them, the smile still on his face.

“I'll meet you again tomorrow morning,” he said. “That will give you a day to think about what I've said. I look forward to hearing your decision. Au revoir.”

///////////////////////////////////////////

CLASSIFIED

Memo to: Branch Director (name redacted)

From: Supervisor, European Division

Subject: Lauren Groves

The above named subject is currently traveling in Europe with her companion Jessica Turkle (see separate file) and was approached by our agent while in Paris.

The agent recommends that Groves be recruited and advises that she and/or Turkle could be assets in ongoing operations in Europe, i.e., carrying coded messages.

However, due to Groves' background, the agent suggests there could be a more beneficial strategy. A check of Groves military records shows an assignment to a secret code-breaking operation stateside. My recommendation is that we attempt to utilize Groves in our current code-breaking operations in Paris. The agent believes that some leverage can be used to accomplish this.

Stamped as received and signed by branch director. September, 1958.

////////////////////////////////////////////////

Janine took a sip of her coffee, then put the paper cup down in disgust. It was barely lukewarm. She wanted to pop out for a refill, and maybe grab some lunch too, since she hadn't eaten all day. She often got so busy she forgot to eat. It was not a good habit. But she needed to finish the story she'd been working on, and it was proving to be a beast. Her editor had been breathing down her neck all morning, asking when she'd be filing something. Soon, soon, she'd told him. He had just scowled and walked away.

Now she leaned forward and stared at her screen. The lead looked good, but was it strong enough?

“Newly released secret documents show the U.S. Government routinely spied on prominent Americans, including entertainers, civil rights activists and politicians,” the story began, before listing some of the more famous targets.

Janine tapped on the space bar. She wanted something stronger. Maybe something like “ _The Journal_ has learned...” Maybe she should lead with the names of the celebrities. Or maybe she should just let the copy editor punch it up. Oh hell. Frowning in frustration, she began to backspace, deleting the first sentence. Then she realized someone was standing next to her chair, watching. Janine bristled. It had better not be that damned nagging editor again. She turned to see Karen Iverson standing there.

“How's the story coming along?” Karen asked.

“Still trying to beat it into submission,” Janine sighed. “Did you get your interviews done? I need those quotes.”

“I sent them over this morning,” said Karen, peering at the screen. “Check your email.”

“Oh, OK. Thanks,” said Janine. “Hey, are you going out for a coffee?”

“Yeah, you want one?”

“Sure, and grab me a sandwich,” Janine said, reaching for her wallet before Karen waved off her attempts to hand over the money.

“I'll get it,” Karen said. “Corned beef on rye, right?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Janine said, turning back to her computer before a sudden thought made her wheel back around.

“Hey, just a sec, Karen. There was something I'd meant to ask you about,” she said, as Karen walked back over, eyebrows raised.

“Sure,” Karen said. “What's up?”

“I think there may be some files missing,” Janine said. “There are several I've been looking for and I can't locate them.”

“Really?” asked Karen. “How do you know they're missing?”

“I found an index file in one of the boxes,” Janine replied. “The files are all numbered and they should correspond.”

“Well, maybe they were misfiled and put in the wrong box,” Karen said. “Or maybe they were just missing all along. They are pretty old.”

“Yeah,” Janine said. “Maybe.”

“Black, right?” Karen asked.

“What?”

“Your coffee, it's black, right?'

“Um, yeah,” Janine said. “Thanks.”

She stared after Karen's retreating figure as the younger woman disappeared behind the foggy, translucent glass of the closing office door.

////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Mr. Black was waiting on his usual park bench when Jessie and Lulu arrived the following morning. He immediately stood up and greeted them, before motioning to the pathway that led to the river bank.

“I trust you ladies have had a chance to think over my proposition,” he said as they walked together.

“Yes, we have,” said Jessie. “And we are not interested.”

“Well, that's disappointing news,” Mr. Black replied. “I was kind of afraid you might be taking that tack with me. So, I brought this along.”

He unfolded a document and handed it to Jessie. Lulu watched as Jessie scanned the paper, then closed her eyes, then handed it over to her.

“April 18th, 1955,” Mr. Black recited as Lulu stared at the birth certificate copy. “That's the date that your daughter was born, correct?”

Lulu sighed and swallowed hard, trying not to show her anger and fear. Mr. Black merely smiled.

“I know where she lives, with your ex-husband. I can get some pictures taken to prove it, if you'd like. But I wonder if your former husband knows about your romantic relationship with Miss Turkle? If he did, you'd probably never be able to see your daughter again.”

“Damn you,” Jessie hissed. “How do you sleep at night?”

“How do you?” he replied. “Well, I already know the answer to that.”

Jessie turned swiftly toward him, her green eyes flashing angrily, but Lulu grabbed her wrist.

“Don't, darling,” she whispered softly, then stepped in front of the smirking man. “Fine, we'll do what you want. Just leave my daughter out of this.”

“Excellent,” said Mr. Black, ignoring Jessie's protests. “I think we might even be able to work out a compromise.”

“What do you mean?” asked Lulu.

“Well,” he said, taking a breath. “It's come to my attention that your military service included an assignment involving code decryption.”

Lulu looked stunned.

“How the hell do you know about that?” she asked. “It was classified as secret.”

“Your skills could be put to use here in Paris,” he said, ignoring her question. “You could work from an office that could easily double as your photography studio. That way, you'd be allowed to work. Both of you could work here in fact. Just imagine, enjoying your croissants and coffee each morning.”

Jessie and Lulu exchanged glances.

“I can arrange for work permits and accommodations,” he said, taking a cigarette from a silver case in his pocket and lighting it. “There would be appropriate bookings made for Miss Turkle at some of the clubs. Does this sound like a suitable arrangement?”

“There's nothing suitable about any of this,” Jessie said, glancing again at Lulu. “But we don't have a choice, do we?”

He took a drag from his cigarette and smiled.

“Not really.”

////////////////////


	9. Bourne Again Shaw

Shaw steadied herself on the side of the building, then rappelled down the wall from the roof to the ledge of the 18th floor balcony where she managed to find an easy foothold and jump down. The sliding door was closed but it didn't take much effort to force the lock and get it open, allowing her to slip into the large, darkened apartment suite. She pulled in her climbing rope behind her, quickly coiling it up and stuffing it into her small backpack. OK, done. Now, she just needed to find the number's wall safe.

She began moving toward the master bedroom, pulling off her gloves as she went. Suddenly, a sound coming from the down the hallway made her freeze on the spot. What the hell? The number was supposed to be out of town until tomorrow afternoon, so who was that in the bedroom with the TV on? Shaw crept along soundlessly, her gun drawn and pointed straight ahead, until she reached the bedroom door and carefully peered inside. There, she spied the interloper sitting on the king-sized bed, holding the remote, offering a warm smile of welcome.

“How did you get in here?” Shaw sighed. “I thought you were waiting in the SUV.”

“Key pad entry,” Root explained. “I managed to get the code while you were up on the roof disabling the alarm system. I took the express elevator.”

“You could have told me,” Shaw said with a grimace.

“But then I wouldn't have been treated to the spectacular view of your balcony entrance,” Root replied. “I do love watching you do your thing. Especially when ropes are involved.”

Shaw came in and sat down on the bed. Finch was already in her ear.

“Ms. Shaw? Is someone else there? Is that Ms. Groves?”

“Yeah, Finch, everything's fine,” Shaw said, fixing Root with a scalding stare. “Looks like we're double-teaming this one after all.”

“Um, well, OK,” Finch replied, sounding flustered. “Don't forget to take the documents from the safe before you, um, you know, leave.”

“Why would I forget?” Shaw asked, annoyed. “That's what we're here for.”

Hearing Finch click off, she immediately pulled out her earpiece and hurled it -- wire, mic and all -- across the room. Root smirked as the plastic pieces broke apart on the wall and fell onto the floor. Another scowl from Shaw prompted her to begin flipping through the channels on the remote.

“He does seem a little nervous about something,” Root said. “He's been like that around me lately as well. Dropping things, coughing, not making eye contact.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Shaw said. “Reese has been acting weird too.”

“How can you tell?”

“You know,” Shaw said. “He keeps smirking, then looking away.”

“Hmm,” Root said. “Maybe they know.”

“Know what?”

“You know, about us.”

“What do you mean, us? There's no us, Root. There's me and there's you.”

“And there's your ropes.”

“What are you doing with that remote? We're here for the stuff in the safe, so move.”

Shaw pushed Root aside and climbed onto the bed, reaching for the painting on the wall above the headboard.

“Hey, your boots!” Root protested. “Not on the bed! I've told you.”

Shaw ignored her and swung open the painting to reveal the safe. Her fingers slid gently onto the dial of the lock and she began moving it, slowly, listening for the clicks of the tumblers inside.

Root obligingly hit the mute button but continued searching through the channels until she found what she was looking for. Then she got back on the bed and waited for Shaw to finish. A few minutes later, Shaw was stuffing the needed documents into her backpack.

“OK, we're done,” she said, glancing at the scene unfolding silently on the screen before them. “Come on, turn that trash off. We have to go.”

“What's your hurry?” Root asked, hitting the mute button again, allowing the sounds of assorted moans, whimpers and sexy music to fill the room. “You've got your fingers all limbered up. Don't you think you've earned a little down time?”

Shaw looked at Root, then at the porn-filled TV screen, then at her backpack.

“Hey, where's my rope?” Shaw asked. She looked back at Root, who was already reclined on the bed, her blouse unbuttoned.

“Hmm, how do these figure-eight type rings work?” Root asked, holding up a descender ring in one hand and Shaw's climbing rope in the other.

“Oh hell,” Shaw sighed, dropping the backpack.

She climbed onto the bed and pulled Root towards her as their mouths met hungrily, their hands began tearing at clothing and their legs intertwined. It didn't take long for Shaw to get the rope away from Root and then to bind her naked body firmly to the bed, using the rings to get the tension just right. She made sure Root was on her back, strapped down against the mattress and unable to escape her position but with her hands left free.

“You'll be needing them,” Shaw told her, before sliding her tongue along Root's neck, down to her breasts.

There, she licked and teased her nipples, grasping the rope in one hand to control the tension as the moaning Root struggled beneath her. Her other hand moved along the crisscrossed bindings, alternately pinching and stroking the skin beneath them, until it came to its desired place between Root's legs.

“This lock is a lot more fun to fiddle with,” Shaw murmured, allowing a hardened nipple to escape from between her teeth.

She began moving back up along Root's writhing body before returning to her mouth for a long, deep kiss.

“Your boots,” Root said between gasps a few minutes later, as Shaw's open mouth brushed her trembling lower lip, barely touching it, and Shaw's body pressed down on hers and Shaw's hand pulled the bindings tighter.

Shaw finally sat up and pulled off her boots, then her jeans, throwing them into the corner. Then she licked her lips and settled on top of Root's long body, resuming her kisses, moving slowly down the slim torso as Root's hands pulled and tangled in her hair. That warm, maddening, lightheaded feeling began to take over in Shaw's brain as the sounds Root was making began to mingle with the sounds from the TV and soon, for both of them, it was all just one big, motherfucking aural wave of bliss.

////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Lulu frowned and bit her lip with concentration as she slowly turned the radio's large tuning dial to the right, then the left, trying to find the exact place on the frequency that Mr. Black had instructed her. She listened carefully for the shortwave radio signal that was supposed to come through every afternoon at four o'clock.

Wait, she told herself. Is that it? A burst of static came through, then the strains of a familiar song, then a minute of complete silence. There would be a tiny beep after that, and then she'd hear the numbers, read out by a monotonous, almost mechanical voice. The numbers came five at a time, followed by a pause, then another set of five numbers, then another and so it went for several minutes. Then, it would be over.

Lulu wrote down all the numbers on a piece of paper, working quickly so she didn't miss any. That was the easy part. Once that was done she'd spend the next few hours in the tiny back office of her Paris studio, decrypting the numbers, or trying to. Sometimes the messages were just random strands of gobbledygook, likely meant to discourage anyone who might have come upon the broadcasts by accident and had the ability to decode them. But other times there were names, places, instructions. Lulu would write out the decrypted messages on special paper with a special ink that would only show up under a certain kind of light. It didn't matter to her what the messages said. She worked like an automaton, just doing her job. What else could she do?

After her decrypting work each day, she'd leave her studio and walk to a little cafe where she'd have dinner with Jessie. They would talk about everyday things as they ate and they usually shared a carafe of wine, which Lulu would order. If she ordered a rose wine, it meant she had a message to pass on to Mr. Black. Jessie would then head to her job at one of the local clubs, where Mr. Black was a frequent visitor. On the nights when he'd show up, Jessie would use her songs to communicate whether or not there was a message. _Young and Foolish_ was the song she'd play if there indeed was something to pass on, and Lulu would leave the special paper at a dead drop in the park the following morning. That was how it worked, and it worked fine for the first little while. Jessie and Lulu had separate apartments, paid for by Mr. Black, and while they spent a lot of time apart, they were able to spend most nights together. It wasn't perfect, but it was the best they could do, for now.

Then one day, Lulu decrypted a message that made her drop her pen in shock. She was stunned by the words she'd written and the possible consequences. She had to tell Jessie. She hurried over to the cafe, trying not to let the fear show on her face. When she got there, she ordered black coffee instead of wine. That was the signal to let Jessie know she had something of dire importance to tell her, and it could not be discussed at the cafe.

They'd have to go to Jessie's place.

////////////////////////////////////////////////////

The SUV's wheels were squealing as Shaw took the corner at speed, barely touching the brakes. She tried not to smile as she felt Root's body slam against hers, then lurch back into the passenger seat.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Root asked, grabbing the handle above the side window.

“Told you to wear your seat belt,” Shaw grinned, taking the next corner the same way.

“So you think you know the answer?” Root asked after pulling the shoulder strap across her body and locking in the buckle.

“Yeah, it's easy. There were three ghosts.”

“That's why it's a trick question,” Root replied. “There were actually four. The ghost of Jacob Marley was the first ghost, and he warned Scrooge the other three would visit him overnight. So you got that one wrong.”

“Hmph,” Shaw grunted. “You should try that one on Finch. See if he gets it right.”

“He'd get it,” said Root. “He knows Dickens better than I do.”

“OK, so we've done the trick question, the trivia question and the skill-testing question, what's next?”

“The personal question.”

“Figures,” said Shaw. “OK, let's see. Did you ever know your father?”

“Gee Sam, that's awfully personal,” said Root with a mock frown.

“It's your game.”

“OK,” answered Root. “No, I didn't. My mom barely knew him herself.”

“Sorry.”

“My turn. Why is there milk in your gun fridge but no other food?”

“What? I like milk. It's the best thing to mix my protein powder with.”

Root laughed and Shaw smiled, a little.

“OK, what now?” she asked.

“The hypothetical question,” said Root.

“God, I hate those,” said Shaw, furrowing her brow in thought. “OK, got one. If you were torturing someone by playing the same music over and over...”

“I have done that.”

“Anyway, if you were to do that,” continued Shaw, “What music would you use?”

“Probably _Iron Man_ by Black Sabbath,” said Root. “Or maybe that _Barney the Dinosaur_ song.”

“That would get me for sure,” said Shaw. “Your turn.”

Root looked out the front windshield for a few seconds before speaking.

“What would you do if you found out someone you loved had been killed by the government?” she asked.

“You mean like an assassination?” asked Shaw.

“Yes.”

“I'd hunt down those responsible and I'd fucking kill them. With my bare hands if possible.”

“That's what I thought you'd say.”

“Could we play another game now? This one isn't very sexy.”

“I would have thought you'd had enough of the sexy games for one night,” Root smiled.

Shaw clenched her jaw. Root always knew how to get under her skin. It was maddening. She turned to give her a withering look but Root's eyes had suddenly taken on that far-away look that signaled The Machine was talking to her.

“Pull over here please,” Root said a minute later.

“What's up?” Shaw asked, pulling the SUV smoothly to the curb.

“Gotta go,” Root responded, unfastening her seat belt and getting out of the vehicle.

“Hang on,” Shaw said. “Is this one of your 'I'll see you tomorrow night' gotta go's or one of your 'Two months from now I'll be picking you up on a crotch rocket in Times Square' gotta go's?”

Root tilted her head to one side and smiled indulgently.

“Sameen, you know we don't ask each other those kind of questions,” she said.

She closed the door and then leaned back in through the open window, giving Shaw a conspiratorial wink.

“If you're seeing John anytime soon you might want to hide those rope burns on your wrists.”

Shaw cursed and looked down at the series of overlapping red marks on her skin.

“Yeah, well maybe you should hide the sheet burns on your ass,” she replied, looking back up, but Root was already gone.

//////////////////////////////////////////////////

Jessie sat down at the kitchen table in her apartment and faced Lulu, whose hand was clenched into a tight fist.

“Are you sure?” she asked. “It's not a mistake in the decryption or something?”

“No,” Lulu answered. “If there was a mistake, the code wouldn't make sense. Anyway, I went back and re-checked a couple of times. That's the message I intercepted, pure and simple.”

“So someone is ordering a hit on our Mr. Black,” Jessie marveled. “I wonder where the order is coming from?”

“I have no idea,” said Lulu. “We don't know who is running this numbers station, who is sending the messages, or who they are intended for.”

Jessie leaned forward and took Lulu's hands in hers.

“Look, I hate to say this, but if he's dead then we'll be free of him.”

“I know. I've been thinking the same thing,” Lulu said.

“So, let's just not tell him. Let's not pass on the message.”

Lulu's eyes searched Jessie's and saw the same fear and desperation in them.

“You know if we took that path, we'd be at least partially responsible for his death,” Lulu said.

Jessie tightened her mouth and didn't reply, but pressed Lulu's hands in hers.

“And there's one other thing we should consider,” Lulu continued.

Jessie shook her head and frowned as Lulu leaned forward.

“This could be a test,” Lulu said. “To see what we'll do with the information.”

Two nights later, Mr. Black, also known as Agent X, waited in the foggy London darkness that enveloped the bridge over the Thames. He could hear footsteps approaching, then saw the familiar, darkened figure of the man he'd been meeting this way for years. The two men greeted each other, then stood side by side, looking out over the dingy river.

“Did they pass on the message?” asked the MI-6 agent in his crisp British accent.

“Yes,” answered X. “They informed me of the supposed threat against me. So I suppose they have passed their first test. They can be trusted.”

“Excellent,” said the other. “Go ahead and switch them to the real numbers station. Let's see what our new code-breaker can find us.”

///////////////////


	10. Alternating Currents

Janine closed her eyes, braced herself, waited. There it was again, the faintest of touches. Two soft fingers turning ever so slowly, lightly drawing circles on the back of her neck. Thoughts began to swirl around in Janine's mind, leaving her pleasantly aroused, as she so often was first thing in the morning, on those mornings she wasn't hung over. She could just imagine how Karen looked lying there in her bed, her long, wavy hair nestled against the hollow of her collarbone, her brown eyes smouldering, her lips slightly parted as she smiled that warm, seductive smile.

“Stop it,” said Janine.

“You like it,” Karen told her, continuing to brush her fingers along Janine's skin, just below the hairline, first this way, then that.

“No, I don't,” Janine took a breath, closed her eyes.

“Sure you do. I can tell.”

Janine began to protest, but then fell silent once Karen's other hand began to do its work, slipping over her hips, between her legs, into that warm, soft core where Janine could feel her desire growing.

“Please ... oh please,” she whispered.

“Do you really want me to stop?” came the slightly husky voice in her ear.

“No,” Janine whispered again. “Don't stop.”

And just like that she was on her back, her arms flung out in surrender, her breath coming deep and hard as she felt the exquisite weight of Karen's long, slim body pressing down on her, and then the firm, warm sensation of Karen's tongue making her moan.

When did this happen, Janine wondered. When did she allow herself to be given over to this magnetism, this vortex of sensuality that was Karen Iverson? When did she lose control of this relationship, whatever the hell it had become?

She didn't know, didn't really know anything anymore. Karen was, for all her pleasing qualities, an enigma. And there was still something buried deep within her that Janine couldn't touch, and didn't dare to try.

She was ruminating on all of this the next morning, when Karen set down a mug of coffee in front of her, along with the latest edition of _The Journal._ The story they'd written together was on the front page.

“Nice play,” said Karen. “And it's getting lots of hits online.”

Janine sipped her coffee, then picked up the paper and began reading the story, her forehead creased into a frown.

“There's some scuttlebutt going around the office,” Karen said. “We could be up for a couple of awards for investigative reporting.”

Janine didn't respond but continued sipping and reading.

“At the very least, we'll probably get story of the month,” Karen suggested, before sitting down with a look of concern. “What's the matter?”

“I've been thinking about those files,” Janine said, without looking up.

“Which files?” asked Karen.

“The missing ones.”

“Well, what was in them?”

“I don't know, because they are missing,” Janine said, meeting Karen's gaze.

Janine took a long swig of her coffee. She didn't get to where she was by being timid. She held Karen's stare for several seconds.

“Well they couldn't be that important,” Karen said with a shrug.

“How do you know that?” Janine asked pointedly. “If we don't know what's in them, we couldn't possibly know how important or unimportant they are.”

“This is getting kind of boring,” Karen replied, standing up with a sigh.

Janine couldn't help noticing the slight change in Karen's body language. The slap of one black nail-polished hand against her thigh, the almost imperceptible blink of her eyes, the pursed lips. Karen picked up her coffee mug and went into the kitchen, where she started to pour herself a refill.

“Hey, let's go out for brunch,” Karen called out. “I have a craving for French toast and home fries.”

Janine hesitated, then plunged ahead.

“I notice that whenever I bring up those files, you change the subject,” she said.

Karen walked back into the room and faced her, mug in hand.

“Are you accusing me of something?” she asked. “I'd rather you just came right out and --”

“Did you take those files?”

“Why the hell would I want declassified government files from the 1950s?”

“I don't know,” Janine returned. “There are lots of things I don't know. Like why you have a gun in your laptop bag.”

“That's a very nosy question,” Karen said quietly. “And it makes me wonder why you would be snooping in my things.”

“It wasn't a question, it was an observation,” said Janine, trying not to sound defensive. She could feel her heart beating faster. Was that panic she felt rising up in her chest?

“And I wasn't snooping,” she added. “I saw it one day when you were putting your laptop away.”

“I'm a single woman who lives in New York,” Karen said, her face now completely devoid of the sunny smile she usually wore. “Yes, I have a handgun, for safety reasons. Lots of people do. Don't you?”

“No.”

“Is there anything else you want to ask me about?”

Several questions had collected in Janine's mind at this point and some of them seemed to be pushing themselves to the forefront, almost forcing themselves out through her lips. Among them was a question that had been nagging at Janine for a while now. And if she said it out loud it would go something like this: “Who are you, really?”

But something in Karen's eyes, something dark and unyielding, made Janine hesitate, made her keep the words inside her head.

“No,” she said. “There's nothing.”

The next day when Karen finished work, she was sure to carefully wipe down her desk and phone and to gather up anything that could ever lead back to her. She wished Janine hadn't spotted her gun. She liked Janine, but of course that was beside the point. At least now she knew of her suspicions. And that meant it was time to move on.

She already had her next project lined up. It would require a fair bit of research and some good old-fashioned shoe leather, and there was no telling how long it would take. But this new project wouldn't be a contract for anyone else. It would be personal.

///////////////////////////////////////////////

The gym was busy for a Friday afternoon as Shaw made her way to the weight room, passing the treadmills and cycles. She hadn't managed a workout for a few days so she wanted to get in an extra long one today. Long and slow, that was her plan. Shaw liked to do her weights as slowly as possible, counting the lift in two seconds, then holding the weight completely still for another two, then taking twice as long to return the weight. Most people did their reps as fast as they could, letting the momentum do the work. But not Shaw. She was going for precision, control through the whole range of motion. That was the way to do it. To feel it.

She meditated as she moved through the burn of her exertion, although she would never have called this process meditation. She just thought of it as going in deep, alone with herself. Other people could call it whatever the hell they wanted. It was real.

After a while, she found herself breathing out, grunting from the effort and thinking of Root again. She hadn't seen her for a couple of weeks, which was good in some ways and hell in others. Good in the sense that Shaw didn't have to listen to those flirty remarks and see that crooked, knowing smile at the most inappropriate, exasperating times.

But Shaw had to admit that things were a lot more exciting when Root was around. She knew how to push Shaw's buttons, get her blood pumping, get a reaction from her, good or bad. Shaw still remembered the surging anger that pulsed through her the time that Root broke into her apartment while she was sleeping, then Tased, drugged and kidnapped her. The fervid, thirsty impulse for retribution that made Shaw leap forward and fucking deck her afterwards. Root was still smiling when she went down. It was as though she enjoyed getting punched in the head. Maybe she did. Still, Shaw had no desire to punch her again. Wouldn't want to knock any more screws loose. Or mess up that pretty face.

It was Root's face she was thinking of now. Her flawless skin, her sexy brown eyes, her long nose, her mouth and yes, of course, her insatiable tongue. Shaw could almost feel the sensation of it on her body as she worked out. What the hell was that about? Did other people think about sex while they were working out? Shaw pulled out her earbuds and looked around the gym. Well, there certainly was enough grunting and panting going on to put someone in the mood. Now that she noticed all the noise around her, she found it extremely distracting. She finished her reps, wiped off her bench and headed for the change room.

It was nice to shower off and exchange her black gym gear for her black t-shirt, jacket, tight jeans and boots. Good thing she was a winter. Not everybody could pull off the all-black look. Shaw left the gym, walked past the big public library and strolled through the park behind it until she found a good place to stand and watch the scene unnoticed, just outside the park gates where the tour buses lined up.

“You there Shaw?” It was Reese.

“Yeah, I'm in place,” Shaw replied. “Where's the number?”

“I've got him,” said Reese. “Keep an eye out for anyone following us.”

“Got it,” said Shaw, signing off just as she became aware of someone sitting down on the bench next to her.

“You want the other half of my sandwich?” Root asked, holding up a panini stuffed with fresh basil, tomato and bocconcini cheese. “I can't eat it all.”

Shaw grimaced, then leaned over and took the grilled sandwich.

“Thanks,” she said. “Would you mind not blowing my cover?”

“Thought you looked hungry, Sameen,” Root replied. “You need carbs after a workout.”

Shaw turned to give Root an irritated glance, but it didn't even register.

“Nikola Tesla Corner,” Root said, nodding at the nearby street sign with a smile. “You know Tesla used to sit here and feed the pigeons.”

“I'll feed you to the pigeons if you don't bug off,” Shaw said. “I'm working.”

“How I've missed the sound of your fondly adoring banter masked as hostile threats,” Root smiled, getting up. “I'll see you later Sameen. Don't forget to throw the sandwich paper in the garbage when you're done.”

Shaw desperately wished to fire back a rejoinder but a mouthful of panini left her barely able to grunt in reply. She walked over to the nearby trash can and looked inside. There was a sub-machine gun in there, along with a gas mask and some stun grenades. Shaw quickly picked them up and began heading down the street after Reese.

“We've got company Shaw,” Reese was in her ear. “You'd better arm up in a hurry.”

“Already done,” Shaw replied, shoving the grenades into her pockets. “I'm right behind you.”

She turned to see where Root had gone but of course, she'd already disappeared into the crowds in the park. Shaw shook her head and continued hurrying along the street towards a building where Reese's trajectory was about to collide with that of several SUVs and some testy gangsters.

Shaw knitted her brow as she pulled the strap of the gas mask over her head and readied her weapon. There was something very strange about that last exchange with Root, although she couldn't quite put her finger on it. And really, she didn't have time to puzzle over it just now. It was hammer time. And she was bringing the hammer.

///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Lulu's next few months in Paris were a jumble of breezy mornings, busy afternoons and countless glasses of wine, sipped while staring into Jessie's pale, jade green eyes. She'd even drop by the club some evenings to hear Jessie play, feeling the rapturous warmth that filled the room as her smooth alto voice held the crowd spellbound. If Mr. Black was in the club while Lulu was there, he'd give no indication that he knew her. Still, she could feel the intensity of his presence like a sinister force, lurking, watching.

Of course, living in Paris was no hardship and both women were able to engage in the work they loved, Jessie with her music and Lulu with her photography. But the secrets they shared about their real purpose there weighed on both of them, despite the idyllic setting. It wasn't long before Lulu was nervously ordering another black coffee.

“Is everything all right?” a worried Jessie asked as Lulu arrived at her apartment later that night.

Lulu grabbed Jessie's hand and led her to an armchair before speaking.

“Listen,” she said. “We are in a huge amount of trouble right now.”

“What's happened?” asked Jessie.

“You know he assigned me to monitor a different radio broadcast after we told him of the threat against him,” Lulu began, then waited for Jessie to nod in agreement.

“So I've been tuning in and recording the numbers from those broadcasts, then de-coding them, if possible,” said Lulu. “Sometimes what comes in seems like jibberish. Then I realized that those messed-up codes are in fact double-encrypted.”

“What does that mean?”

“The message is put into a code. Then that code is in turn put into another code using a different key, which in theory should make it harder to crack,” Lulu said. “But then I noticed something. Some of the code looked very familiar to me.”

“Familiar?” asked Jessie. “How?”

“There was a recurring pattern. The same one that was used at the beginning of the messages being sent out of Virginia. I didn't work on that side of the operation but I did see the odd message when I was training there. Anyway, the recurring pattern is part of the protocol of the message. Like when you start out saying, 'To whom it may concern.' That's why it looks familiar.”

“Wait a minute,” said Jessie. “You mean the messages are coming from our side?”

Lulu nodded.

“You've been intercepting messages from our side?”

“Yeah, I think so. They must be intended for certain field operatives in Europe. Other than Black, obviously, which is why he can't decode them himself.”

“So who is Black passing them on to?” Jessie asked, before gasping and placing a hand over her mouth. “Oh my God. He's a double agent.”

“That's what it looks like,” said Lulu. “My guess is that he's working for the Russians and he's probably getting fake intel from them and passing that to our side.”

“And saying it came from us!” finished Jessie. “If he gets caught, he'll say we fed him the wrong intel.”

Lulu didn't reply, she just stared at her hands.

“What'll we do?” asked Jessie in desperation. “We could be charged with treason ... and ... and... well, you know what they'd do to us.”

“We have to run,” Lulu replied, in a voice barely above a whisper.

Jessie stared back at her, stunned.

“You said we'd never hide,” she said.

Lulu didn't answer. But her shoulders began to shake and she doubled over, trying to wipe away the tears that were streaming down her face. Jessie's arms were around her in a second.

“Now you listen to me,” Jessie said, hugging her and kissing her hair. “We'll find a way out of this, somehow. First of all, we are getting the hell out of Paris.”

Lulu looked up, impressed by the quiet, dignified show of strength that Jessie was now making. It was for her, she knew, and she had never loved Jessie more than she did now.

“No matter what happens, we stay together,” Jessie said. “Promise?”

Lulu nodded.

“Good. So that's settled,” Jessie said resolutely. “Now start packing.”

/////////////////////


	11. Shellshock and Shebang

The dark waters moved quietly under the looming bridge as the man in the grey trench coat stood at the railing and looked across the river toward the giant structure, a marvel of Victorian engineering. Behind him, a loud voice echoed from inside the stone walls of the famed Tower of London.

“Halt! Who comes there?”

“The keys!” came the answer, shouted from the darkness.

“Whose keys?”

“Queen Elizabeth's keys!”

“Pass then,” the first voice bellowed. “All is well.”

The man near the river smiled at the sound of the ancient call-and-response ritual. His training at MI-6 had followed a privileged education at Cambridge, among other places, and he'd always enjoyed his history lessons, full as they were of bloody detail and raw, visceral impact. He'd been particularly delighted by the intrigue and treachery involving Mary Queen of Scots, whose plot against Elizabeth I was discovered through a decoded message.

And then there was this place, in all its hideous glory. Elizabeth herself had at one time been imprisoned in the Tower of London, as had the less fortunate Lady Jane Grey, the Earl of Essex and Elizabeth's mother Anne Boleyn, all of whom were beheaded not far from the spot where he now stood. He licked his lips and let the damp night air fill his nostrils.

His appreciation of the moment was interrupted by the sound of footsteps and he turned to see his acquaintance, who went by many names including Mr. Black, approaching on foot.

“What the heck was all that about?” asked Black, looking toward the Tower where the shouting had originated.

“The Ceremony of the Keys,” answered the other man, who also went by many names. “It happens every night at the Tower. And has happened every night for several hundred years.”

“Nice to know some things never change,” said Black, extracting his silver cigarette case from his overcoat.

“Indeed. Now what's the reason for this unscheduled rendezvous? It had better be worth my coming out here at this hour.”

Black sighed, pulled out a cigarette and placed it between his lips before lighting it and inhaling.

“It seems my two pretty lovebirds have flown the coop,” he said at last.

“That's unfortunate. How much do they know?”

“Enough to be scared out of their wits, but not enough to pose any danger to you,” Black told him. “Or to me, for that matter.”

“And by which name do they know you?” the MI-6 officer asked.

“I'm Mr. Black to them. That's all.”

“Of course, the standard Mr. Black code name. Not very original, is it?”

“No, but I'm told you use a similar name in London. Blackthorne or Blackpool or something like that.”

“Blackwood.”

“Close enough.”

“It carries a bit more primeval menace to it, don't you agree?” Blackwood said dryly.

“If that's what you're going for,” answered the man with the cigarette. He offered one to Blackwood, who shook his head.

“I trust you can contain this,” the MI-6 officer said.

“Of course,” answered the other.

“Fine,” said Blackwood, before walking away into the darkness. “Do whatever you have to do.”

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

To: Supervisor, European Division

From: Agent X (name redacted)

Date: December 11, 1959

CLASSIFIED

Subject: Asset Jessica Turkle

My apologies for the delay in dealing with this situation. I can only say that circumstances have shifted significantly in my dealings with the asset. It is my recommendation that she be released from the duties we have placed on her as part of this ongoing operation.

It is hoped that this release can be accomplished immediately, as I will be returning to the United States in the near future. The asset will be accompanying me.

Report is stamped as received and signed by supervisor. December, 1959.

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Shaw tucked a stray lock of dark hair behind her ear and walked into the dimly lit restaurant. It was a swanky place, that was for certain. The music, a blend of cocktail jazz and easy-listening classical was just loud enough to drown out the sounds of the kitchen while allowing the murmur of dinner conversation to create a pleasant undertone. She unbuttoned her long, tailored black jacket and gave the full dining room a quick once over. Ah, there was her dinner companion, sitting at a table on the right-hand side. And she looked like a million bucks.

“Your coat, ma'am?” the maitre d' offered, but Shaw waved him off and went over to the table where Root was waiting.

“Is all this necessary?” Shaw asked. “We could have just met at the coffee shop.”

“Yes, we could have,” smiled Root. “But it's nice to change things up every now and then, do something a little different. Maybe even spoil ourselves. I think we deserve it.”

Shaw didn't reply as she sat down, taking note of the slinky black dress Root was wearing and oh yes, the come-fuck-me pumps with the heels. Shaw did love those shoes, and the way Root's hips moved when she walked in them. That dress would certainly be showing off Root's long legs and was she even wearing a bra? Shaw looked up to see Root watching her with that lop-sided grin.

“Anything you might have a preference for tonight?” she asked, as Shaw opened her menu.

“Something quick and uncomplicated,” Shaw said.

“Are you sure you wouldn't rather take your time and linger, just a little?”

“Yes, I'm sure,” said Shaw. “And I think we need to have a little chat about what you're up to.”

“I'm not up to anything,” Root said, with a tiny frown and a slight lift of her eyebrows that suggested innocence. The gesture didn't fool Shaw one bit.

“I'm just enjoying a nice dinner with a compatriot,” Root went on. “What's made you so suspicious about my motives, anyway?”

Shaw was about to answer when the waiter appeared and announced the evening's specials, including a mouth-watering filet mignon, which Shaw ordered for herself. Root ordered the salmon and they both decided on tomato basil soup as a starter. A bottle of wine arrived at the same time the soup was delivered.

“I know you prefer red,” Root said, lifting her glass in salute. “So I went ahead and ordered a nice one.”

“I take it Finch is footing the bill,” answered Shaw, taking a sip of what she knew was bound to be an expensive vintage. “Mmm ... very nice.”

“Glad you approve,” said Root. “I trust all went well last night with the big lug.”

“Yeah, thanks for the accessories,” said Shaw. “The gas mask came in handy.”

“Well, it helps to have an AI making your to-do list,” Root said.

“Still.”

“Still what?” Root asked, resting her soup spoon on the edge of her dish.

“I thought we had an understanding,” said Shaw.

“About what?”

“No romance.”

“I don't remember agreeing to that,” Root said, taking a sip of her wine.

“It was understood.”

“Oh, you mean like an unspoken agreement.”

Shaw sighed. Root was not going to make this easy. Well, fine. Somebody had to be the sensible one and as usual, it was going to be her.

“Look, I can see what you're trying to do,” Shaw began. “This place. The wine. The candlelight. That dress ...”

Shaw trailed off as she appraised the dress again. Yes, it was a jaw-dropper and it perfectly accentuated the slim shoulders and graceful arms of the woman wearing it. The neckline was just deep enough to barely show the curve of a breast and just above that, a tiny gold heart on a long, fine chain that sparkled as it tumbled down the contours of her neck and collarbone. Damn. Shaw could imagine the dress falling to the floor, landing in a neat pile of black silky sexiness and the fragile gold chain slipping through her fingers as she gathered Root's naked body in her arms and lowered her down onto her bed. But what about the bra, Shaw wondered. Was she wearing one or not? If so, she'd have to reach around Root's back and unhook it, her hands brushing against the soft black lace as her fingers worked so very carefully...

“Sameen?”

“What?” Shaw snapped back to attention, realizing she'd lost track of what she'd been saying only a minute before.

“Don't you like my dress? You keep staring at it. Down the front of it, to be exact.”

“It's fine.”

Shaw focused on the soup, stirring it carefully before bringing the spoon to her lips. She didn't dare look at Root again until she'd regained her composure.

“Is there anything else?” Root asked. “Besides the candlelight, the wine and my dress, which you seem to be enjoying despite your complaints.”

Shaw looked up at last and leaned across the table.

“Yes, there is,” she said firmly. “Last night, just before you left, you said 'See you later.'”

“Did I?”

“You've never said that before. So I'm wondering if something's changed.”

“It's just an expression,” Root shrugged. “It doesn't mean anything.”

“Everything you say means something, Root. Sometimes two or three things at the same time. Like the word 'compatriot.' So don't tell me it was just a slip of the ... a mistake.”

Shaw stopped and took a breath. Root was smiling as she looked down at her soup, and still smiling as she looked up and met Shaw's dark eyes with her own.

“So maybe it does mean something, Sameen.”

Shaw sat back in her chair, defeated. She wasn't entirely sure that Root was wrong about their relationship. It had started out as a physical thing. A Tase here, the odd threat of torture and bondage there. A bullet to the shoulder. A punch to the head. Mmmm. Good times.

Finding someone who was into the same rough play she enjoyed had been a pleasant surprise for Shaw. Their first meeting was just a taste of it. The next came when they found themselves holed up together in a CIA safe house with 10 hours to kill. Root thought it would be fun to pick up where they had left off, even offering to put herself in the hot seat first. Shaw obliged, but used a hair dryer instead of an iron, just to show that she could be a good sport when she wanted to. That part was fun but it was even more exciting afterwards, when Root returned the favor by zip-tying Shaw to the chair and using the Taser on her toes.

Shaw felt herself becoming aroused as she thought about those early encounters. There had certainly been no lack of imagination, and the passion was there from the beginning. Shaw licked her lips. Her steak was arriving at precisely the right moment. She sunk her teeth into it with relish as she recalled the first time she and Root had fallen into bed together, after an argument of course. She couldn't even remember what it was about. Just that Root's lips were full and red and her eyes flashing and that vein in her throat throbbing. What was she supposed to do, other than to grab her by the shoulders, shove her onto the bed and kiss her until she stopped talking?

The steak was tender, flavorful and bloody and Shaw savored each mouthful while thinking about Root writhing and struggling underneath her. She'd been telling herself the thing she had with Root was just about sex. But somewhere along the line, Shaw wasn't sure exactly when, it had deepened into something more intimate. What they shared, though she hated to admit it, was a kind of respect and even caring. That was it -- she cared. About Root. Holy crap. She cut another piece of steak, brought it to her mouth, chewed.

Root was still smiling, looking up every now and then to meet Shaw's gaze. They didn't speak again until they finished eating. Shaw wiped her mouth with her napkin. She wanted to take Root right there in the middle of the restaurant.

“Could you order me a coffee please?” Root said, getting up. “And a creme brulee.”

Shaw watched her walk towards the ladies' room, the dress clinging to her slim body as she moved. How on earth does she keep that figure eating those rich desserts, Shaw wondered, her thoughts wandering to a mental image of Root lying in bed on her side, one arm bent beneath her head, the sheets tangled loosely around her torso, leaving most of her legs exposed and offering a glimpse of that perfect, round ass.

Shaw ordered the coffee and dessert for Root, then ordered a coffee for herself. Maybe she'd have a spoonful of the creme brulee. A few minutes later, the coffee arrived, followed by the dessert. Shaw sipped her coffee patiently and waited, then began looking around. Where the hell was Root? Shaw sighed and pursed her lips as it dawned on her what had happened. Root had done her disappearing act once again. And this time, she'd stuck Shaw with the check.

Shaw pulled the creme brulee towards herself, picked up the spoon and with a resigned shrug, pierced the hard, caramelized sugar, digging down through the thin crust in order to savor the silky, smooth custard that waited below.

///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Having slipped from the ladies room unnoticed, it was quite easy for Root to make her way out of the restaurant and into the street, walking with purpose but without any hurry. A cab was waiting at the curb so she got in and told the driver to head for her current digs, the Coronet Hotel, one of Finch's acquisitions. It was a nice place to call home, for now, and The Machine could handle her reservation there in a discreet way.

She couldn't help looking back at the restaurant as the cab pulled away. Hopefully, Shaw wouldn't be too sore about being abandoned after such an intense conversation. Root smiled, knowing she was just kidding herself. Of course Shaw would be pissed. But it was all part of the game the two of them had been playing for the past several months. I want you, I don't want you. I hate you, I need you, I miss you ... it was the next step in the progression that would be the hardest, for both of them.

Once in her room, Root took off her shoes, then pulled a small bottle of brandy out of the mini fridge and poured herself a night cap. Tomorrow she'd be taking a brief trip out of state and she wasn't sure exactly when she'd be back or how it would all end up. But if things went according to plan, she would be shattering the past of someone she cared deeply about.

Of course, she'd had plenty of experience in disrupting people's lives and invading their privacy. Her interference often had destructive or even fatal results and sometimes that was part of the plan. But there were other times when her reasons were more personal. Those were the hardest, no matter how good she was at her work.

Root sat down on the bed and sipped her drink, thinking back to a day several years ago when she'd battered her way into someone else's past. It had taken her months and months to track her quarry, digging through old records, sleuthing out personal contacts and navigating through cyberspace. After a long search that crossed several states and led to many dead ends, she found herself at the address she hoped would be her final stop, on the doorstep of a modest home in a Midwest suburb.

Root readied her handgun in front of her, took a deep breath, then rang the bell. She heard slow footsteps inside, making their way to the front door. When it opened, she was met with weary eyes of pale green and a mouth that curved downwards. The thin, elderly woman peered through the screen door, taking in Root's face and barely flinching at the sight of the gun. Then she cleared her throat and pushed the screen door open to allow her visitor inside.

“Figured you would show up one day,” she said. 

////////////////////


	12. Brute Force

Root stepped into the front hallway of the house, making a quick study of the woman who stood mere inches away. Her thin face showed the remnants of what had once been exceptional beauty, and those eyes, a mixture of quiet dignity and sadness.

“You're Samantha, right?” the older woman asked as she led Root into the front room.

“Yes,” Root said, her usual chatty demeanor somewhat muted. She'd been mentally preparing herself for this moment. But finally seeing Jessie, a person she'd known only through words on paper, was proving to be more emotional than she'd expected.

“Your grandmother told me about you,” Jessie said, motioning for Root to sit down. “Smart as a whip, she always said.”

Root remained standing, almost frozen, but Jessie sat down calmly in an armchair. She glanced again at the gun.

“What's the matter?” she asked. “Are you afraid of an old woman?”

“No,” Root replied, trying to control the strange trembling she felt in her voice. “I'm not afraid.”

Jessie stared at her for a moment, obviously sizing her up. She looked at the gun again and pursed her lips in distaste.

“I don't like guns. Especially in my own house.”

Root blinked, looked down at the gun, then back at Jessie, who responded by folding her arms in front of her and staring right back. After several seconds of this, Root sighed and lowered the weapon. Jessie stared at her for a moment longer before speaking.

“You look like her,” she said. “Taller though. Come sit down, please. You're making me nervous.”

Root slipped the gun into her bag before moving to the chair opposite Jessie.

“So what brings you here, Samantha?” Jessie asked.

“You can call me--” Root began, then stopped.

“Pardon me?” Jessie said. “I can call you what?”

“Nothing. Samantha's fine.”

“Was there something you wanted?”

“Yes,” said Root. “I want to know why you betrayed my grandmother.”

“Betrayed?” Jessie said, frowning in genuine surprise. “Is that what you think?”

“I've seen the documents, the memos about what happened in Europe,” said Root. “You left her there and came back to the states with ... with that man.”

Jessie nodded and her eyes suddenly looked even sadder than before. Her fist clenched on the arm of her chair.

“Yes,” she said slowly. “I came back here. She stayed there. But it wasn't what either of us wanted. We had no choice.”

“There's always a choice,” Root replied firmly.

Jessie lifted her chin and locked eyes with her visitor.

“You want to know what kind of choice we were facing? You have no idea, young lady. It was a different time. Two women together...”

Her voice trailed off and she looked down at her fist, then clenched her jaw.

“Let me see those documents,” she said.

Root dug them out of her bag and handed them to Jessie, who began leafing through them.

“Oh yes, yes, hmm,” she said. “Where did you get these?”

“I have my ways.”

“I'll bet,” Jessie said. “Well, I can tell you what happened after your grandmother discovered that Mr. Black was a double agent. We fled Paris as quickly as we could. Spent the next several months on the run, all over Europe, trying to find somewhere safe. It was much different traveling then, you know. The Cold War was happening, you never knew if there were spies around, or worse. There were so many places you just couldn't go.”

“We tried to blend in, keep a low profile,” Jessie continued. “But of course, that was hard. I guess it would have been easier if we'd split up, but we didn't want to do that.”

“We tried to come up with ways to disappear. We even considered faking our own deaths! Do you believe that?” Jessie said with a bitter laugh. “We were so naive. Anyway, we never got the chance to make that idea work, because by then, he had found us again. Don't ask me how. He was like a bloodhound.”

“We were in Capri when he caught up with us. Enjoying a beautiful sunny day, walking around the shops, buying some lemons and figs to take back to our little villa. We started walking up the street and there he was, standing just inside one of those shops that sell the local pottery and knick knacks.”

“Lulu spotted him first. We weren't sure it was him right away, so we walked past and kept going up the street to our villa. Of course, when we looked back, he was following us,” Jessie said, shaking her head. “Have you ever been to Capri?”

“No,” said Root. “Maybe someday.”

“The streets are narrow and steep,” Jessie explained. “We tried to lose him but he was too sharp for us. Now that I look back, I realize he'd probably been watching us for a few days before he finally swooped in.”

“We got back to our villa and for a few minutes, we actually thought we might be safe. Then we heard someone knocking at the door. It was him, of course. And there was nowhere left to run.”

Jessie fell quiet for a moment, staring out the window.

“He came in and sat at our kitchen table, smirking and eating our figs while he told us what our few options were. He could turn us both in, or he could blackmail us,” she said. “Or we could make a deal with him.”

“So what was this deal?” Root asked.

“I had to return with him to the states and leave Lulu behind,” Jessie said. “I had to marry him.”

“Marry him?” Root asked, shocked. “How could you go along with that?”

Jessie replied with another derisive laugh.

“We were in no position to refuse at that point. People accused of spying for the Soviets could be executed. And lesbians were considered just as loathsome as Commies.”

She shook her head again and her mouth became a hard line. “I should have laced those figs with cyanide.”

“What happened then?” Root asked after a few moments of silence.

“I came back with him, married him, provided cover as he built his career stateside. His work involved recruiting and running agents, mostly military people. He did it for years and was very good at it.”

“And my grandmother?”

“She stayed in Europe for a while, working as a photographer. She had a studio in London and did quite well there.”

“But you must have seen her again after that.”

“Of course I did. We found ways to meet secretly from time to time. It wasn't ideal but it was the best we could do.”

“So you carried on an affair for years. And he didn't know about it?”

“We never thought of it as an affair,” said Jessie. “As for him, he probably suspected. But as long as we were discreet, he didn't care.”

“And you kept up this charade for how long?” asked Root. “I know there was a divorce at some point.”

“May 14th, 1984,” answered Jessie. “That's when the divorce finally went through. He met someone younger and I was happy to be free of him. But he still held the whole spy business over our heads. He didn't want me anymore but he didn't want Lulu and me to be happy either. I suppose he blamed us for losing his position in Europe, whatever it was. So he continued to threaten us. Your grandmother became sick of his games and wanted to expose him. But I was afraid. I tried to dissuade her ...”

“From what?” asked Root.

“From going public with what she knew about him. She said she was tired of hiding.”

“And then she was killed,” added Root.

Jessie looked up suddenly and met Root's eyes.

“You don't believe her so-called accident was really just an accident,” Jessie said with a sly smile. “Smart as a whip, just like she said.”

Jessie got up and went to a bureau, where she hunted around for a minute before extracting a manila envelope, which she handed to Root. The envelope had several newspaper clippings inside.

“They said her car crashed into a guardrail after one of the tires blew out,” said Jessie. “How often does a tire just blow on a highway? And then the car conveniently goes up in flames?”

“You think it was him?” asked Root.

“Can't prove it,” said Jessie. “But yes.”

Root put the clippings back into the envelope, then stood up and held the envelope out toward Jessie.

“Keep it,” said Jessie. “You're going to go looking for him, aren't you?”

“I'm pretty good at finding people,” said Root.

“Well this one's more slippery than most,” said Jessie, going back to the bureau drawers. “He changes his name more often than he changes his socks. But here's the last contact information I had for him.”

She handed Root a small card with an address written on it.

“I'm not so sure you're doing the right thing,” she said, as Root pocketed the card. “I would advise you not to do it and to leave the past where it belongs. But I can tell that you are like your grandmother and you'll just do it anyway. So please listen to me when I say you must be very careful around this man. He's capable of anything.”

“So am I,” Root said as she headed for the door, stopping for a moment to admire a small, upright piano that was pushed against the wall.

“Do you still play?” Root asked, running her hand along the polished wood.

Jessie stared quietly at the piano for a moment, then met Root's eyes with a sad smile.

“No.”

She walked Root to the door and took her hand as she said goodbye.

“Your grandmother was very proud of you,” she said. “She knew she'd messed up with her own daughter but she had high hopes for you. That's why she left you money. I wish you well, Samantha. And good luck, you're gonna need it.”

////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Shaw moved silently through the darkened room and sat down in the chair opposite the bed. She sat there for a few minutes, quietly watching the sleeping woman as she breathed in and out, her long hair spread out on the pillow, one hand tucked beneath her chin. How innocent people look when they are asleep, Shaw thought to herself. You'd think this one was as sweet as the girl next door in one of those bad Hallmark TV movies. You'd never guess the things she'd done, the acts she was capable of. The sneaky, duplicitous, annoying, infuriating...

Biting her lip, Shaw reached over to the lamp on the table and switched it on. Root's eyelashes fluttered and opened, and she gave out a small gasp before sitting up in the bed, her eyes focused on the woman sitting in the chair.

“Shaw,” she said. “How did you --”

Shaw sat back in the chair and cleared her throat, interrupting Root's question.

“So there I was, sitting in this swanky restaurant,” she began. “Just me and the creme brulee, and I thought to myself, 'Where the fuck is Root?' And then I realized you'd ditched me, again.”

“You're not too upset, are you Sameen?” Root asked. “I just wanted to create a bit of space, you know, keep things interesting.”

“As if it's ever anything else when you are involved,” Shaw said slowly. “You're trying to keep me off balance. Maybe even get me on a hook.”

“Is it working?” asked Root with a smile.

“I'm here, aren't I?” answered Shaw, taking a moment to shift to a more relaxing position in her chair before going on. “I think we need to have a little chat about our so-called arrangement.”

“The unspoken one?”

“Yeah. See, I think that's part of the problem,” said Shaw “We never talked about it out loud. And now, we probably need to modify it. Set some new ground rules.”

“OK,” said Root. “Why don't you come sit over here on the bed while we talk.”

“I'm fine here for now,” said Shaw, as Root leaned back against the headboard and drew her knees up under the sheets.

“First rule, no more games,” said Shaw. “No ditching, no disappearing.”

“Oh, but Sam...” Root frowned as Shaw held up one hand.

“Second rule,” said Shaw. “You make the date, you pay.”

“Hmm, I guess that's fair. What's the third rule?”

“Checking in,” said Shaw. “It's OK to ask where you're going, where I'm going, when we'll meet up again, that sort of thing. Checking in, not checking up. Right?”

“Sounds reasonable,” said Root.

“OK,” said Shaw, getting up from the chair and moving over to sit on the bed next to Root. “So where are you going?”

Root looked at Shaw with surprise. “How did you know I was leaving?”

Shaw sighed and gave Root that look, the one that said “I know you” before reaching out to brush the hair away from her face. Root looked down and bit her lip.

“I'm working on something, a personal project that I've been trying to finish for a long time,” Root said. “The Machine is helping me.”

“Does it concern me at all?” Shaw asked.

“It might.”

“And you can't tell me anything more?”

“Not yet.”

Shaw nodded and for a moment, neither one of them spoke. Then Root smiled and reached out for Shaw's hand.

“What about the romance part?” she asked. “Can we talk about that now?”

“I'm open for future discussions,” said Shaw. “Enough talking for one night.”

She leaned forward and kissed Root tenderly, then pulled the sheets away.

“Is this what you wear to bed when you aren't expecting company?” she asked, sizing up the oversized T-shirt Root was wearing.

“What were you expecting, a silk negligee?” asked Root. “I can slip one on if you'd like.”

“No point in doing that,” Shaw whispered, pushing Root down on the bed and crawling on top of her. “It wouldn't be on you for long.”

She helped Root pull off the T-shirt, then resumed kissing her, moving slowly down her long body, letting all her senses lead her where they wanted her to go. And yes, she could already feel Root's hands in her hair, tugging and clawing, leaving her scalp tingling.

“Mmm, first creme brulee, now this,” Shaw murmured as Root began to moan. “I must be in heaven.”

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

The next morning saw Root on the highway, listening to The Machine's instructions about how to get where they were going. It was a strange feeling, knowing she could soon be finding the last pieces of a puzzle she'd been trying to solve for a while. But as she drove, her mind was on other things as well.

One of them was Shaw, who'd left her just before dawn with a series of slow, tender kisses that Root could still taste. She'd watched Shaw pull on her black tank top and blouse, then her tight black jeans, then her boots. She'd pulled her long, dark hair back into a loose pony tail, leaving the front strands to frame the exquisitely formed oval that was her face. Did she know how beautiful she was? Sometimes Root wondered if Shaw really did know or care about it. Her lack of emotional cues had led her to depend on her senses, meaning she pleased herself in terms of appearances. Lucky her, thought Root, she had so much to work with in the first place.

Just before Shaw left, Root had reached over to her nightstand and found the long gold chain she'd removed from her neck the night before, and she'd held it over Shaw's open palm and let the tiny gold heart drop down, followed by the length of the chain, until all of it was sitting in the center of Shaw's hand. Then she'd taken Shaw's hand with her own and closed the fingers around it all and then she'd kissed Shaw gently and Shaw's forehead had grazed her own and Shaw's perfect, beautiful nose had rubbed against hers and then Shaw was gone.

“Enter. The. Off. Ramp. On. Your. Right. In. Four. Hundred. Feet,” The Machine intoned, interrupting Root's train of thought. “Then. Turn. Left.”

“Oops, yes got it,” Root said abruptly, returning her attention to the road. She was soon parking on a modest, tree-lined street, about half a block from the small house she was looking for.

She grabbed her shoulder bag, making sure she had all she needed before getting out of the car and walking up the street to the house. Thanks to The Machine, she knew there would be no one around to see her walk down the driveway to the back of the house, where she gained entry quite easily. From there, she made her way to a room that had been converted into an office, with several file cabinets, a computer and shelves full of books and papers.

It didn't take Root long to find the files she needed, thick with documents and hand-written notes. She turned on the computer and inserted a thumb drive, quickly downloading everything in the hard drive, before packing all the loot into her shoulder bag and leaving the house.

It was several hours later when Root received notification that an email was waiting in the personal inbox she'd set up years ago for Karen Iverson. She wasn't too surprised to find out who it was from.

“Someone has broken into my house and taken some important files. I'm pretty sure it was you, Karen. I'm not sure why you would want them, but I'd like them back. And I'd like to talk to you. Without your gun, if possible.”

Root smiled, hit “Reply” and began typing.

////////////////////////


	13. Meeting in the Middle

Root walked into the little Mexican-style restaurant and found a table for two at the back. The place wasn't too busy and she had clear sight lines to the front entrance and the back door as well. Her shoulder bag was close at hand where it could be quickly accessed if needed, because while she'd promised not to bring a gun, no one said anything about a Taser. Always be prepared, she'd told herself. She took off her glasses and wiped them with a soft cloth before putting them back on. Then she ordered a pitcher of sangria and some nachos with salsa, and waited.

Soon enough, the door opened and in walked the person she was expecting, looking a bit older, a little thinner, unsmiling. Root gave a little wave, drawing her guest to the table.

“You look good,” Root said pleasantly. “It's been a few years I guess.”

The other woman didn't reply at first, then took off her coat and sat down with a sigh.

“It's been several,” said Janine. “Can we cut the small talk?”

Root smiled and gestured toward the pitcher in the center of the table.

“Would you like a glass of sangria?” she asked, picking up her own glass and taking a sip.

“No,” answered Janine. “I quit drinking. Two years sober now. But thanks for asking. Where are my files?”

“We'll get to that,” said Root. “First, I have a few questions, if you don't mind.”

“I have some questions too,” said Janine. “Have you left the business? I never see your byline anywhere.”

“I'm involved in a different line of work these days,” answered Root. “More ... proactive, I guess you could say.”

“And that involves breaking into people's homes?”

Root smiled and sidestepped Janine's question with one of her own.

“Where are you working these days, Janine? I haven't seen your byline much either. Not at _The Journal_ , that's for sure. Are you freelancing?”

Root picked up her glass and took another sip of her drink, giving Janine time to squirm a little before hitting her with the next volley.

“I know you are working on a story about covert government activity,” Root said. “Spies in the U.S. military. Assassinations. Sounds pretty juicy.”

“How do you know about that?” asked Janine, looking unsettled.

“You've reached out to a few publications to gauge interest,” said Root. “Made some pitches here and there. But no one's willing to touch the story based on what you've got so far.”

Janine stared at Root in stunned silence.

“You've got some good leads but nothing substantial,” Root continued. “You need something more solid. And I might be able to help you. But I need you to help me too.”

“Why the fuck would I help you?” Janine replied.

“Because it would be in your best interest,” said Root. “It's kind of a co-operative thing – a collaboration. You help me, I help you ... Hey! Remember when we wrote those stories together?”

“I wrote them,” said Janine. “You just ... found people, batted those lashes and got to them to talk.”

“My mother always told me to follow my talents,” said Root with a smile.

“And my mother told me to beware of the devil,” Janine replied.

Root lifted her eyebrows and smiled.

“I guess we shouldn't talk about making a deal then,” she said. “How about just calling it an arrangement?”

“I still don't understand why you are so interested in my story,” Janine said. “What's your angle?”

Root reached into her bag, noting with some amusement Janine's suddenly alert posture, and pulled out a file of paper documents which she handed across the table.

“I have been trying to find this man, the one called X, for several years,” Root told her.

“These are the missing documents from those old files,” Janine exclaimed as she looked over the papers. “I knew you had them.”

“X ran agents in the states, and in Europe,” Root said, leaning forward. “He was also a double agent, working for the Soviets.”

“How do you know that?”

“I have my sources,” said Root. “I could share some of their information with you ... maybe.”

Janine bit the inside of her lower lip, just a little, then the inside of her cheek, as she rubbed her chin with her thumb and forefinger. Then she took a deep breath and her eyes locked with the woman she knew as Karen. She didn't speak for a while, but finally, she nodded.

“OK,” she said. “But we need some ground rules.”

“I was hoping you'd say that,” said Root, leaning back in her chair.

That evening found Root back at Janine's house, with the two of them sitting together in the front room, all the papers and files spread out on the floor around them. “Just like old times,” Root had commented on the scene, although Janine was not feeling nostalgic. She explained that she'd been working very hard for the past year trying to nail down the story. Once she had it properly documented, she figured it would be a huge scoop, one that would get her name back on the front pages, maybe even help her win a staff position again. With this kind of motivation, Root hoped her former colleague would be willing to put her grudge against Karen Iverson on the back burner, for now.

“So this X fellow comes back to the states and starts recruiting agents here,” Janine said. “But he finds most of his prospects in the ranks of the military. How does he do that?”

“Look at this,” Root pointed to one of Janine's documents dated in the late 1980s. “This is him right here. He was working at military installations himself. That gave him a chance to scout his prospects. He was working under the radar, hiding in plain sight.”

“But how do you know that's the same guy?” asked Janine. “It's a different name.”

“I have a source,” Root began.

“Who?” asked Janine.

“It's confidential,” replied Root. “But my source can provide video and digital evidence of this man's crimes. All of the video is properly dated. Some of it comes from government security feeds and archives.”

“Wait a minute,” Janine interrupted. “I need to know how you got this stuff.”

“No you don't,” answered Root, knowing that even if she told Janine about The Machine, she'd probably never believe it. “I can assure you it's genuine. My source has run multiple tracking algorithms that show that the person known as X is the same person behind these covert operations, with a 99.8 per cent probability.”

“Let me see that,” Janine said, reaching for Root's laptop. Her eyes flitted over the screen as she scrolled through graph after graph of data.

“Hmm, we still need someone to confirm this,” she said. “We're talking about serious crimes here. Murders, assassinations ... look at this.”

She showed Root a file of printed transcripts.

“If my suspicions are correct, it looks like this guy ran his agents for years, then decided to clean house in order to protect his identity,” Janine said. “He was afraid these people knew too much. So he had them killed. All of them. One by one. And this is how he did it. He'd have a sharp-shooter take out their vehicles as they drove on a highway. Make it look like a tire just blew. Then the crashed vehicle would be set on fire to destroy any evidence.”

“Who is this transcript from?” asked Root, looking at the paper.

Janine stared her straight in the eye.

“One of the sharp-shooters,” she said. “He provided testimony to a secret panel about it. Then he was later killed as well. Someone sent me these transcripts in the mail over a year ago. That's what got me started on this story. It's taken me forever to put the pieces together. It's like a fucking puzzle with half the pieces missing.”

“Can I ask you about this piece then?” Root asked, showing Janine one of the documents she'd taken from her office the previous day. “It's dated 1993.”

“Right, I remember reading this file,” Janine replied. “Same thing exactly. Blown tire, vehicle crashes, big fire. Yeah, the guy had his daughter in the vehicle with him. She was about 10 years old. She lived. He died.”

“He was in the military,” Root noted.

“Yeah,” said Janine. “It all fits. He's got to be another one of X's victims.”

“And so was his daughter,” said Root.

Janine paused and locked eyes with Root again. “It's not you, is it? No, the age doesn't match up. But it's someone you know, right?”

“It's personal,” said Root. “Let's just leave it at that. Have you been in contact with the person who sent you the transcripts?”

“We communicate by email,” said Janine. “And no, I'm not sharing that address with you, Karen. It's confidential. Like your source.”

“And what about X,” asked Root. “Where is he now?”

“He retired years ago,” said Janine. “No idea where he is now. But it would be nice to confront him with all of this. See what he has to say for himself.”

“Yes,” said Root. “That would be nice.”

Back in New York a few days later, Root was working diligently at her laptop while remaining keenly aware of the incessant ticking of the clock. It was taking her far too long to get her work done and she knew Finch was waiting for her to finish her task. He was already shuffling over to her desk with that concerned expression on his face.

“Ms. Groves?” he asked.

“Almost done Harold,” she answered. “I'm trying to find a couple of bugs.”

“It's just that we need that application to be sent to Mr. Reese right away, and --”

“Hang on,” Root said. “Let me run the code again. There's something wrong with it and I can't ... oh darn, found it.”

She looked up at Finch with an embarrassed smile.

“I left out an indent,” she said. “It's fixed now.”

“That's not like you,” he frowned, before stopping and biting his lower lip. “Maybe .... um, never mind.”

“No, tell me,” Root insisted. Finch's sudden twitchiness was making her nervous.

“You just seem a little distracted lately,” said Finch. “It makes me wonder if something's wrong.”

Root closed her laptop and leaned back in her chair.

“I have been wrestling with a dilemma,” she said, crossing her arms in front of her. “But I think I've come to a decision.”

“Should I be worried?” he asked.

“No.”

“Should Ms. Shaw?”

Root frowned and tilted her head to one side. How did he manage to read her so well when it came to Shaw? It really was unsettling. But it was none of his business, although she would never tell him that. Not in those words, anyway.

“Don't worry, Harold,” Root said. “I'm about to fix that too.”

She picked up her laptop bag and jacket and headed outside to the street, where she began making her way to her destination. Soon, she spotted the distinct building that was the Fitzhugh Quinnell Preparatory School. And soon after that, she caught a glimpse of Shaw, sitting on one of the little benches just outside the school gates.

She hadn't seen Shaw since returning to New York, and she knew her colleague was unhappy with the lack of contact, considering how they'd left things. But Root had wanted to keep some distance until she could finish the work she needed to do. Most of it was good, old-fashioned hacking and Root preferred solitude when she was working her magic. She hoped Shaw would understand.

But there was another reason she didn't want to see Shaw while she made her final moves to track down X. It had to do with Shaw's eyes. Those dark, deep, intense eyes. Despite all the damage and hurt she'd inflicted in her life, Root never wanted to see those eyes registering anything that resembled pain. At the same time, she knew that the one thing Shaw deserved was the truth. And now it was up to Root to give it to her.

At the moment, Shaw was staring straight ahead, pretending not to notice Root's approach. OK, Root thought, she's pissed.

“So this is where you go on your days off,” Root remarked, sitting down next to her.

Shaw looked at her, then back at the school where Finch had placed young Genrika Zhirova after they rescued her from the Russian mob.

“She's a good kid,” Shaw said. “It's the least I can do to check in on her now and then, make sure she's OK.”

Root smiled and said nothing, prompting a frown from Shaw.

“What?” Shaw asked. “Don't act so surprised that I care about someone. She gets me. And I get her, more or less.”

“I'm not surprised, Shaw. I'm glad you have someone to care about,” said Root.

“Was there something you wanted?” Shaw asked with an impatient sigh. “I somehow doubt you came here to chat about a 10-year-old girl.”

“I did, in a way,” said Root. “I've uncovered some information that you will want to know about. But you have to promise me...”

“What information?” Shaw's demeanor sharpened immediately.

“Shaw, you have to promise me you'll listen to the whole story,” Root said, reaching for Shaw's forearm. “Promise?”

“Is this about Gen?” asked Shaw.

“No,” answered Root. “It's about someone else. Someone I care about.”

Shaw held Root's gaze steadily before finally blinking.

“Promise?” Root asked again, giving Shaw's arm a gentle squeeze.

Shaw nodded. “OK. Tell me your damn story.”

“It's a two-parter,” said Root.

Shaw shrugged and stood up, freeing herself from Root's grasp.

“You can tell me Part One on the way,” she said as she started along the walkway.

“Where are we going?” asked Root, hurrying to catch up.

“I'm grabbing a pizza and going home,” said Shaw. “You're welcome to join me.”

Root smiled. Pizza, a couple of beers and the comfort of her own place would help to mellow Shaw considerably. Maybe she'd even get over her irritation at being shut out. But Root didn't want to assume too much. She took a minute to catch her breath and then launched into her story, sparing few details.

//////////////////////////


	14. The Rainbow Table

“Is this a real story?” Shaw asked. “It sounds made up. Especially the part about the two classy chic lesbians in the 1950s, with their forbidden interracial love affair.”

She was sitting on a cushion on the floor of her loft, eating her fourth slice of quattro stagioni with extra prosciutto. Root had stopped after one and a half, since they were large slices.

“It's like a mashup of _Desert Hearts_ , _Blow Up_ and a James Bond flick,” Shaw continued. “But there's not enough gunplay, or blood.”

“I realize your taste runs more to Peckinpah and Tarantino,” smiled Root. “But it is a true story. One of the women involved was my grandmother.”

“Really?” asked Shaw. “You mean the photographer? She sounds pretty cool.”

“Yes. She was,” said Root. “She died when I was young, so I didn't get to spend as much time with her as I'd have liked. But it was something.”

Root stopped for a moment and thought about her grandmother's long gloves and the scent of her scarves and the bedroom of her old house.

“She cared about me. And not many people did,” Root said.

“What about the other woman?” asked Shaw.

“Jessie,” said Root.

“Yeah, Jessie,” said Shaw. “Are you ever in touch with her?”

“Sometimes,” said Root. “I see her now and again. She was trying to help me track down her ex-husband, but it turns out he's pretty good at keeping his head down. Which brings me to the second part of our story.”

Root stood up, wiped her fingers on a napkin and took her plate to the small kitchen sink.

“Does this part have blood in it?” asked Shaw, biting into another piece of pizza.

“I'm afraid so,” Root answered, staring into the sink. She didn't dare look at Shaw.

“And there will probably be more blood before it's finished,” Root added softly, then turned to face Shaw, who was still chewing enthusiastically while wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

Root couldn't help picturing her as a child, her eyes wide and unblinking, trying to comprehend why the vehicle she'd been riding in had suddenly crashed and caught fire, why she was being pulled from the wreck with barely a scratch, why her father wouldn't be driving her home. Shaw hadn't told Root very much about that night, but it was clear that it still haunted her. Would Root's revelations bring her peace? Root sighed and walked over to her shoulder bag to retrieve the files she needed. No, there would probably never be peace but at least there might be some kind of justice.

In any case, it turned out Shaw couldn't keep her promise to listen to the entire second part of the story Root wanted to tell her. Once she got her hands on the documents concerning her father, Shaw's dark eyes narrowed into something that resembled heat-seeking missiles and her taut body immediately sprang into action. Root found herself being dragged out of Shaw's apartment and down to the street, where Shaw proceeded to violently kick the rear passenger window out of a parked sedan. She then opened the doors and shoved Root into the front passenger seat, ignoring her cries of protest while throwing the bag of files in after her.

“Shaw, let's just talk about this,” Root was pleading as Shaw hot-wired the car and threw it into gear, roaring out of the parking space with the tires squealing.

“I've had enough talking,” Shaw said, gritting her teeth.

Root knew there was no point in saying anything else until Shaw was ready to listen. And they were looking at a long drive anyway. So Root kept quiet as Shaw drove, that look of mad intensity burned into her darkening features. The silence lasted for a good hour.

“How long have you known about this?” Shaw finally asked.

“It was just a hunch at first,” Root answered. “When The Machine started telling me things about... well, about your past.”

She noticed Shaw's mouth harden into a line, her jaw clenching the tiniest bit, as she stared straight ahead at the road, one hand curled tightly around the steering wheel.

“Then I started putting the pieces together, but I didn't want to tell you anything until I was sure,” Root continued. “It took a while for us to find all the evidence we needed.”

“We?” Shaw's head turned to glare at Root. “Who's we?”

“Me, The Machine, and a couple of other people,” said Root.

“You mean Finch?” asked Shaw.

“No, he doesn't know anything about this,” said Root. “At least I don't think he does.”

“Who then?” Shaw demanded, her eyes flashing. “This Jessie person?”

“Yes, she knows part of it,” Root said. “And then there's this reporter I used to work with, Janine.”

Shaw said nothing for a few minutes, staring at the road as she drove. Then she turned to look at Root again.

“How well do you know this Janine?” she asked.

“Fairly well,” said Root. “I trust her. She's very good at what she does.”

Shaw looked at Root again and frowned.

“How long ago was it you worked with her?” she asked.

“Several years ago,” answered Root. “It was at _The Journal._ I was using the Karen Iverson alias.”

“Right. The one with the glasses,” said Shaw, an almost imperceptible smile appearing briefly on her lips.

She drove on for a while without speaking, then turned to look at Root again.

“You slept with her, didn't you?”

“What? Shaw, this has nothing to do with --”

“Just answer the question.”

“So what if I did? It was years ago,” answered Root, as Shaw shook her head and went back to staring at the road.

Root sighed and stared out the window on her right for a minute before turning to face Shaw.

“If I didn't know better, I'd swear you were jealous,” Root said.

“I don't do jealous,” Shaw said. “Remember?”

“Right,” said Root. She had to admit the only time she'd seen anything like jealousy on Shaw's face was when Bear got hold of her meatball sandwich and scarfed it down in about three seconds. The dog had then burped loudly and padded back to his bed for a nap, seemingly oblivious to Shaw's curses.

Shaw's current expression was similar, if slightly softer, which Root felt was a vast improvement over the look of psychotic rage she'd been wearing when they first got into the car. Now Shaw was sighing and tapping her fingers on the wheel. She reached over to her right to turn on the satellite radio, then began trying to find a decent station.

“Let me do that,” Root offered, relieved to see Shaw was at least willing to let her mind wander a bit. “What did you want? How about some nice classical music?”

Shaw gave her that look -- the one that said “you know me better than that” -- then smiled a tiny bit and returned her gaze to the road.

“OK, let's see if they have a steampunk zombie death metal station on here,” Root said, flipping through the channels.

“Never mind,” Shaw said in a more conciliatory tone. “We can split the difference.”

Root flipped to a blues channel and leaned back in her seat. It would be many hours before they got to the place they were going. At least driving would help Shaw to refocus. Of course, they could have taken a plane. But that wasn't Shaw's style. As soon as she heard about X's part in her father's death, she went straight into Full Metal Jacket mode, demanding to know the location of the murdering sack of shit. Root explained that her hacking had narrowed it down to GPS co-ordinates in another state halfway across the country, but it would take a while to pinpoint their target. That was when Shaw had strong-armed her out the door, threatening to kick her ass if she didn't come along and tell her everything she knew. Root had time to grab her shoulder bag and laptop on her way out, but that was about it.

So now here they were, on a road trip like Thelma and Louise, only way more badass. And the only person likely to go flying over the edge of a cliff in this version of the story would be X, whose life would not be worth a nickel once Shaw got her hands on him.

They drove on for a while before Shaw started talking about feeling hungry. Root said nothing, since Shaw was the one driving and generally the one in control of the whole situation, and Root knew Shaw's hunger would win out over her thirst for vengeance, given enough time.

Sure enough, Shaw pulled over at a truck stop about half an hour later and the two of them walked in and found a table. Root was glad to see that Shaw's demeanor had mellowed, at least for now. She'd be easier to talk to once she had a full stomach. Root ordered a coffee and a tuna sandwich while Shaw went for the double cheeseburger platter and milkshake.

“We're going to need a plan,” Root said, watching Shaw finish off her burger.

“I've got one,” Shaw replied. “I blow the bastard's head off.”

“Sounds like fun, but I think we might need a little more finesse,” said Root. “We have to make sure we get the right person, agreed?”

Shaw glared back at her, then picked up a french fry, drove it into the mound of ketchup on her plate and shoved it into her mouth.

“You know he's going to be elderly, right?” Root said as Shaw continued to chew and glare. “He's probably in his 90s by now.”

“So he's 100 fucking years old,” Shaw said. “I don't give a damn.”

“I just want you to be aware --”

“The world's full of retired gangsters, dirty cops, ex-dictators and fucking Nazis who are 100 years old,” said Shaw. “Being old doesn't get them a pass. Not in my books anyway.”

Root shrugged and sipped her coffee. She could hear Finch's voice inside her head lecturing about the perils of a “binary moral code” like the one Shaw adhered to. Root, whose moral code was much more flexible, loved having philosophical debates with Harold. But to her, Shaw was a straight line that led exactly to where you thought it should go. An arrow shot right through the heart. No, a dagger.

That steadfast sense of purpose was one of things she loved about Shaw. And when it came to dead fathers and grandmothers, their methods might vary but their drive for revenge was in sync. They finished eating and got back on the road, heading west, driving until late in the night, when Shaw pulled into a motel so they could rest.

That night, Shaw slept fitfully, her dreams rife with fiery crashes and faceless assassins. Then those confusing, terrifying images began to melt into another scene that was all too familiar to Shaw. It was a recurring nightmare that had haunted her for years, making her relive the toughest 13 weeks of her life, her basic training as a marine recruit.

The dream was so vivid, she could feel the rain running down her back, her neck, her face, and she could taste the mud and gravel that greeted her mouth with every pushup. But most of all, she could hear the ear-splitting invective of her drill instructor as he yelled at her from mere inches away.

“Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen ... keep going little girl!” he screamed. “Nineteen, twenty ... what are you, some kind of freak? Do you think you are special? You are nothing!”

The torture went on for hours, through pushups, lunges, thrusts and running in place. Her muscles were screaming, her body begging for respite as she marched, exhausted, the pack on her back getting wetter and heavier with each step. The DI was right beside her, yelling, always yelling, always in her ear.

“Cry bitch! Why don't you cry? What's wrong with you? Cry! Cry you fucking bitch!”

Now she was doing side-straddle hops, which were basically jumping jacks from hell, up and down, back and forth, with him still yelling.

“What's the matter little girl? Didn't you get enough attention from your daddy? Are you trying to prove you're as good as a boy? Is that what your problem is?”

Shaw felt the hate and rage growing inside her. She wanted to punch the DI's face in. No, she wanted to tear his face off and stomp it into the ground. But she knew that attacking him would only put her in the brig. So she set her anger aside, for now.

“Remember my face, bitch! Remember my voice!” her tormentor railed at her. “Every time you pull the trigger, every time you snap some bastard's neck, I want you to see my face! You got that?”

“Sir, yes sir!” Shaw yelled back.

“What?”

“Sir! Yes, sir!”

The rain pounded down, the mud coated her hair, her face, her chest. Only now, in her dream, she didn't see the DI's face. Instead, she saw a huge X standing there, looming, waiting for her.

“I'm coming for you,” she growled. “You're dead. You are fucking dead.”

Root turned over in bed and watched helplessly as Shaw thrashed around in her sleep, whimpering and from time to time, crying out, although the words were incomprehensible. Root didn't dare to wake her, but tried to comfort her by speaking softly.

“It's OK, Sameen,” she said. “It's going to be all right.”

Shaw sat bolt upright in the bed and stared at Root, or at least in Root's direction. Shaw's eyes, large and empty, seemed to stare right through her, unfocused, unseeing.

“It's me, Shaw. I'm here,” said Root. “I'm right here.”

Shaw reached out and grabbed Root's shoulder, and Root responded by slipping her arms around Shaw, pulling her close. She could hear Shaw's breathing slow down, returning to normal, and felt her tense muscles begin to relax as she lay back down on the bed. They curled up together with their arms around each other, Root stroking and kissing Shaw's hair as Shaw lingered somewhere between dream and waking, her head resting against Root's long body.

When morning came, Shaw was up and dressed in a flash, any recollection of the night's terrors seemingly vanished along with the darkness that brought them.

The two of them were soon back in the car, continuing westward. Several hours later, they were zeroing in on their target, a long, L-shaped, three-story building smack dab in the center of Root's GPS co-ordinates.

“This is it?” asked Shaw, pursing her lips as she stared out the car's tinted windshield. “A nursing home?”

“I told you he's an old guy,” Root said, consulting the screen on her laptop just to be sure they were in the right place. “What did you expect?”  


Shaw said nothing as she reached over to the glove compartment and retrieved her handgun.

“Just a second,” Root said, grabbing Shaw's forearm. “We can't just burst in guns blazing.”

“Why the hell not?” Shaw frowned.

“Because it's a nursing home, Shaw!” said Root. “We need to use a little bit of finesse here.”

“I'm really getting sick of that word,” Shaw said, shaking her head.

“Let's park a few blocks away,” Root suggested. “I've got an idea.”

Shaw grimaced, then put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb as per Root's instructions.

“When did you get so concerned about collateral damage anyway?” Shaw asked, glancing at Root as she drove.

“I'm not the monster I used to be,” Root smiled. “I've changed.”

“I hope you haven't changed too much,” Shaw replied, and both of them had to smile at that.

About a half-hour later, Root walked into the nursing home reception area.

“I'm here to visit my grandfather,” she smiled at the young woman behind the desk. “Mr. Green?”

“Yes, he's in the residents' lounge,” the woman said. “He'll be so happy to see you. He loves getting visitors.”

She led Root to a large room where a number of residents, visitors and staff members sat around tables and chatted on couches together. Root scanned the room as she walked in, noting the layout of the place and the exits. Shaw was already sitting at one of the smaller tables, perusing some pamphlets after having made inquiries about getting an elderly relative accommodated. This cover would allow Shaw to check out the place without arousing suspicion. But for now, she was sitting quietly, keeping an eye on things in case X got spooked. As Root passed her table, Shaw used her right hand to brush her hair back behind her ear, signalling that all was good.

Root was escorted to a table in the center of the room where a small, white-haired man sat alone, occupied with a game of Scrabble.

“Mr. Green?” the staff woman greeted him. “Someone is here to see you.”

“Hello,” the old man said with a smile, fixing Root with his twinkling blue eyes. “Who are you?”

“It's me Grandpa,” said Root. “It's Rose. Don't you remember me?”

“He doesn't remember people sometimes,” explained the staff helper. “Especially if he hasn't seen them in a while. But he can remember all the letters and the words he needs to play Scrabble, right Mr. Green?”

“Would you like to play?” he asked Root.

“Sure, Grandpa,” Root replied, sitting down at the table as the elderly man began filling the little bag with the tiles.

“There are six R's and there are eight O's,” he said with a smile. “There are only four S's, but 12 E's. So you should be able to spell your name. Your name is acceptable as a Scrabble word because it's not just a proper noun, it's also a common noun. And it's a verb too. Past tense.”

“It's also an adjective,” Root said with a smile as she picked up a couple of stray tiles and handed them to the man.

“Yes,” he said. “When it refers to the color rose. Very good.”

“I guess you could say the word green is equally versatile,” said Root. “In fact, there are several colors that can be names and can also be verbs.”

“That's true,” the man said merrily. “Like brown and pink.”

“And black,” said Root, watching the man's face carefully. He made no reply but smiled as he shook the bag of tiles.

“How many X's are there?” Root asked as the man began to pry the bag open again.

“X's?” he said, looking up. “Why, there's only one of those. It's not a common letter but it's worth a lot of points if you can use it.”

“Do you use it much?” asked Root.

“I try to,” said the man. “There's only one Q too.”

He held up the bag so that Root could take a tile, then he took one himself and held it up.

“You got a blank tile,” he said, pointing at her. “You go first.”

“OK,” said Root, taking her tiles from the bag and placing three of them on the board.

“Spy,” said Mr. Green. “That's a small word.”

“Yes, but it leaves you several options,” answered Root.

“You know there was a famous spy named Rose,” said Mr. Green. “Rose O'Neal Greenhow. She spied for the Confederacy during the Civil War.”

Root smiled back at him and gave a quick gaze around the room. She could tell Shaw was watching them from her table near the door. But Shaw also seemed interested in another table in the far corner of the room and was using her left hand to tap her pen on the table. It was a warning that something was not right.

“You seem to know about a lot of things,” Root said to the old man across the table from her.

“I was a teacher for 40 years,” he said, drawing several tiles from the bag and carefully arranging them on his holder. “You must know that. Your parents must have told you, didn't they?”

Root was a little thrown by his question, but kept her cool. Was he trying to smoke her out? She decided to keep playing along for the time being.

“I'm sure they did,” she said. “But I don't think they mentioned which subjects you taught.”

“History and English,” he replied. “I remember a lot of it, because I taught it for so long. But I don't remember you. I really don't remember having a granddaughter named Rose.”

He looked at her sadly and his eyes became moist with tears. Root took a deep breath. This guy was good. She'd been prepared for some cat and mouse but so far, it didn't seem like this mouse was going for the cheese. And Shaw's tapping was becoming more urgent. What the hell?

“I don't remember, I don't remember,” the man was saying as a tear began to make its way down his cheek.

He reached up and wiped it away, then began trying to get something out of his pants pocket. Root's hand was in her bag, on her pistol, her finger on the trigger. Shaw's tapping was becoming louder. Root could feel her heart pounding and she was about to pull out her gun when the man's hand reappeared above the table, holding a Kleenex. He used it to wipe his eyes, which were now spilling tears down both sides of his face.

“I don't remember,” he said more loudly, and one of the staff workers quickly came over to the table.

“It's OK, Mr. Green,” she said soothingly. “We all forget sometimes.”

She helped him to stand up, comforting him by taking his arm.

“I'm sorry,” she told Root before leading the old man away from the table. “He gets a little overwhelmed sometimes. It helps if he can go for a walk.”

The woman and her elderly charge began slowly making their way out of the lounge, past the table of Shaw who was now gazing directly toward the back of the room. Root turned to see a tall, elderly man with a walker get up from his place and begin moving toward the back exit. Shaw was on her feet, heading out the front door and nodding at Root to follow their quarry. If they both hurried, they should be able to cut off his escape. Root grabbed her bag and quickly followed the tall man out the back way, knocking the Scrabble pieces onto the floor.

///////////////////


	15. Einstein's Violin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was planning to add an epilogue at the bottom of this chapter, but then I decided that it would work better if I just did that as a separate chapter. That's what I've done with most of my other stories and I'm pretty happy with that structure. So, enjoy this chapter and I'll get working on the epilogue. As always, thanks for reading. And thanks for believing in the most awesome badass lesbian couple ever. Shoot rocks. Shoot lives. Shoot forever. - ZT

By the time Root made it out of the lounge and into the adjoining hallway, she could see that Shaw had already doubled back from the front lobby and was running toward her with her gun drawn.

“The stairs!” Shaw yelled, pointing to the doorway just ahead of Root and to her right.

Root opened the door and was immediately confronted with the tall man's walker, which had been thrown lengthways across the bottom of the stairs. Apparently, he didn't really need a walker and discarding it thus would both hasten his escape and slow down his pursuers. Root could hear Shaw cursing as she leaped over the walker in one swift movement, not unlike a mountain goat, then continued scrambling up the stairs.

“He's our guy!” she called back to Root, whose long legs were having a harder time getting past the obstacle. “Green was a fucking decoy!”

Root grunted in frustration as she flattened herself against the wall and kicked the walker out of the way. What had she missed? Whatever X had done to cover his tracks at the nursing home, The Machine must have missed it too. He was even more slippery than they had anticipated and now he was heading upstairs to his room. It was more than likely he had a weapon stashed there and now that he knew he was cornered, there was no telling how desperate he might be.

She took the steps two at a time, telling herself that Shaw would be careful, that she wasn't so blinded with rage she'd walk into an ambush. Of course she wouldn't. This was Shaw. Cool, controlled, deadly Shaw. No need to panic.

It turned out she needn't have worried. As she gained the first landing and turned the corner for the next flight up, Root saw Shaw standing over the collapsed form of X, who had only managed to make it halfway.

“No ... no, please,” he gasped, trying to gain his breath. “I'm just an old man.”

Shaw, who had her gun pointed directly at his head, made it clear she was all out of sympathy.

“Drop the act and get up,” she told him coldly.

“At least take me to my room,” he pleaded. “You young ladies have me at a disadvantage. I'm unarmed and more than twice your age.”

“Cry me a river,” said Shaw, pulling him to his feet. “And we're women, by the way, not ladies.”

They got him up the rest of the stairs and took him to his room, where Shaw deposited him in a chair, her gun still trained on him.

“I'm assuming you have a gun tucked away somewhere in here,” Shaw said. “Where is it?”

“You've seen too many movies,” the mostly recovered X replied with a smile. “I never carried a gun. I got my work done just fine without one. Unlike you, Agent Shaw.”

Shaw raised an eyebrow, prompting a wider grin from X. His smile was evil and snake-like and it made Root's skin crawl.

“Yes, I know your name,” he told Shaw. “I've been following your rather unorthodox career path over the years. Ever since --”

“Ever since you had my father killed?” she said, leaning forward to bring the gun closer to his face.

“That was unfortunate, but necessary,” he replied. “He knew too much.”

“Like my grandmother, I suppose,” Root interjected. “Lauren Groves?”

“Ah yes,” he said, turning to face her. “I can see the family resemblance. She was always meddling and getting in the way. I see the apple didn't fall far from the tree.”

Root took a step forward but Shaw waved her off.

“Check the room,” Shaw told her. “I don't trust this piece of crap. He must have a weapon hidden in here somewhere. I would.”

“It takes a spy to know one, doesn't it?” X said, turning to Shaw. “How else could you have made me from the other side of the room?”

“Let's see, sitting in the back corner, near the exit, watching everything else that's going on, pretending to read a book while eavesdropping on a game of Scrabble at another table,” said Shaw. “It kind of fits.”

“I actually prefer card games,” said X. “You know, poker, blackjack, that type of thing. It's as much about the people holding the cards as it is about the cards themselves.”

“And which cards do you think I'm holding now?” growled Shaw, her face mere inches from his.

“All of them, obviously,” said X. “Since you have a firearm and I, as mentioned earlier, have none.”

Root, who had been checking around the room, nodded her agreement.

“There's nothing here,” she told Shaw. “Just a bunch of old books and photos. Nothing under the bed or the pillow.”

“What about that thing?” Shaw said, pointing at a small black case that was propped up against a bookcase.

“That's my violin,” X said quickly. “Would you like me to play you a tune? How about _Turkey in the Straw_ or the _Swallowtail Jig?_ ”

He smiled and reached out for the case, but Shaw immediately grabbed his wrist and turned over his hand.

“Play the violin much?” she asked.

“It helps me think,” he replied. “It's very soothing. You know, Einstein played the violin when he was -- ”

“Your fingertips are awfully soft,” Shaw said, checking both of his hands and then flinging them away in disgust. “I doubt they've touched a string in years.”

She turned to Root, while still holding the gun on X.

“Open the case,” she instructed Root, who had now picked it up. “Carefully.”

Root walked over to the bed, set the case down and flipped the latches, then slowly lifted the top of the case to reveal a pistol.

“Well, it looks like the jig is up,” Root quipped, picking up the gun. “It's loaded too.”

She turned to X and smiled, shaking her head.

“I guess you're not as clever as you thought you were,” she said. “Einstein references aside.”

X looked at Root and gave a low, evil chuckle.

“My dear girl, there are two kinds of people in this world,” he began.

“I've heard that theory before,” Root interjected. “But you should know that it's a new world now. And there are a lot more than two kinds of people.”

“And she's not a girl, asshole,” added Shaw, placing one foot on the chair and leaning forward again.

X snorted and gave her a look of disdain.

“Mine was once a decent occupation,” he said. “It was all procedural. Men were the heroes, like always. Then along come you arrogant lesbians and ...”

Shaw's gun fired twice and X slumped in his chair, mouth open.

“Didn't you want to hear the whole speech?” Root frowned, joining Shaw in front of X's dead body.

“Nope,” said Shaw, removing the silencer from her gun and heading for the door.

Minutes later, they were back in the sedan, heading eastward by a different route. Shaw wanted to ditch the car, but not until after they'd crossed the state line. It wouldn't do to have a stolen car from New York associated with a murder in another state, Machine or no Machine. So they drove for a few hours, ditched the car and got another one.

Once the adrenaline died down, the two of them fell into a long silence as Shaw drove, her eyes once again staring straight ahead. Root couldn't help noticing the look on Shaw's face, a look that suggested while this kill had brought her a significant amount of pleasure, it still hadn't brought her peace. Not yet anyway.

Root reached over to where Shaw's right hand rested and gently placed her own hand on top of it, not knowing what kind of response she'd get. To her relief, Shaw turned her hand and laced her fingers with Root's. Then, without a word, she lifted Root's hand to her mouth and kissed it.

“You're welcome, darlin',” Root said softly.

Shaw turned her head and smiled, then reached over and turned on the radio, finding a classical station. The car soon filled with the strains of Beethoven's 7th Symphony, second movement, one of Root's favorites.

“I've heard that thing about Einstein,” Root said after a while.

“What thing?” Shaw asked.

“That he liked to play the violin when he needed inspiration. It helped him free his mind to think in a creative way. He wasn't just a scientist, he was an artist. He loved Mozart, especially.”

“I get that,” Shaw replied. “You are the same.”

“What do you mean?” asked Root.

“You're an artist and a scientist,” said Shaw. “I've always admired that about you.”

“Funny you should say that,” Root said. “I've always admired you, Shaw.”

That night, they pulled into a proper hotel and got a nice room with a queen-sized bed and a Jacuzzi.

“Might as well enjoy the rest of the trip home,” Shaw explained, before ordering room service for the two of them.

After dinner, Shaw took Root's hand and led her to the bed, kissing her tenderly while unbuttoning her blouse and then her jeans. This time, instead of their usual mad, desperate lovemaking, it was slow and deliberate, with long, lingering kisses and skin caressing skin and open eyes locked together and moans of pleasure.

The feeling of intimacy was so intense, so exquisite, that Root couldn't help herself.

“I love you,” she said as she nuzzled and kissed Shaw's neck, and almost immediately, she regretted saying it.

There was silence that went on for a few seconds, as Shaw's face remained motionless before her. Probably frozen in shock, Root thought to herself. Nice going, blurting that out.

“I just wanted to tell you,” Root said softly. “You don't have to --”

“I love you too,” Shaw said, cutting her off suddenly.

“You do?” a smile spread across Root's face. “Really?”

“Oh God,” Shaw said, turning over.

Root snuggled into Shaw's back and kissed her shoulder. Enough talking for now. She kissed her again, then moved over in the bed until she was resting on top of Shaw's body and began moving down her slowly, kissing each part of Shaw she came across as she descended.

“Mmmm,” Shaw murmured as Root moved lower and lower. “Is this my reward?”

“No,” said Root. “It's mine.”

////////////////////////


	16. Epilogue

(Several weeks later... )

Harold Finch was staring at his computer monitor and busily tapping away on the keyboard, so completely absorbed in his work that he didn't notice Mr. Reese standing beside him with his hands over his ears, trying to block out the cacophony that was assaulting them.

“What is that noise?” Reese finally asked, an expression of horror etched on his face.

Finch looked up at him, startled.

“Oh, hello Mr. Reese,” he said, before turning back to his work. “It would seem that Ms. Groves has taken up a new hobby.”

“What, strangling cats?” asked Reese, grimacing.

Root walked over to join them, a blue-painted violin wedged between her chin and her shoulder. In her right hand was a ragged bow, with which she was sawing back and forth across a string that was, by the sound of it, screaming in agony.

“Shaw bought it for me,” Root explained. “Cool, huh? She thinks I'd benefit from learning an instrument.”

“She couldn't have bought you a clarinet?” growled Reese.

“What's wrong with a violin?” Shaw asked, walking in with a folded newspaper in her hand. “She's actually improved since last week.”

Reese made a “harrumph” sound and stalked off, as Shaw dropped the opened newspaper on the table near Root.

“Check this out,” Shaw said, pointing to the front page, as Root put down the unfortunate instrument and turned her attention to the paper's headline story.

“Looks like Janine finally got her big scoop,” Root said, picking up the paper and reading the article headlined: _Killer Spy Meets Bloody End._

Below, Janine spun her yarn, crafting a lengthy tale reminiscent of the kind of terrifying ghost story once told around a campfire. Except Root knew this story was true.

“Early last month,” the story began, “hundreds and hundreds of miles from the corridors of power in Washington, D.C., an elderly man was found shot dead in his room at a modest nursing home halfway across the country. Staff at the residence knew the victim only as Mr. Grey, a quiet man who enjoyed reading mysteries and listening to vintage jazz recordings.”

“What they never suspected was that Mr. Grey, who went by many other names during a career of espionage that spanned decades, was a retired U.S. Operative, a double agent and a cold-blooded mastermind who orchestrated dozens of murders, including those of numerous U.S. military personnel he'd been using as agents.”

“Nursing home staff describe a grisly scene as the man was found in his room, shot twice through the heart. Nothing appeared to be taken from the room. The only clue left behind was an empty violin case. Staff said Mr. Grey did not play the violin.”

Root smirked and continued reading.

“But the story became even stranger when staff attempted to find a next of kin,” the article continued. “No official records existed for the man. And his pension checks came from a U.S. Government office. Inquiries made to this office led to a dead end.”

“It seemed the mysterious case was closed. But an investigation that includes de-classified government documents and several confidential sources has found that Mr. Grey, also known as Mr. Black, Mr. White and Mr. X, among other names, worked for the U.S. Government as a spy, and also spied for the Soviets during the Cold War.”

The story went on to catalogue X's activities, including his recruitment of Jessie and Lulu, and much more. The article cited a confidential source who gave extensive background information and was quoted several times. Root gave a sigh of relief, knowing the source was Jessie. At least now her grandmother's lover could have some measure of peace, knowing their tormentor had been exposed for the monster he was.

Root scanned further down the article, to where it listed the agents X had killed in the United States. One of them was Shaw's father. Seeing his name printed there in cold, black ink was almost a shock to Root, even though she already knew the truth about his death. She looked at Shaw, who nodded and gave a tight-lipped smile in response. She'd read it, and now it was done.

Root began to fold up the paper, but noticed a notation at the very bottom of the article. “With files from Karen Iverson,” it read. She couldn't help smiling.

“I guess your friend Janine got her old job back,” Shaw said. “What about Iverson? Will she be donning her glasses again anytime soon?”

Root responded with a lift of her eyebrows and a mischievous grin. She knew Shaw liked the glasses as much as Janine did. Well, maybe she could dig them out of that file box again sometime, just for fun.

She was about to leave with Shaw when Harold hurried over with a large envelope.

“Oh Ms. Groves, I almost forgot. This was delivered to my post office box this morning,” he explained. “It's addressed to you.”

“That's weird,” Root said, inspecting the package. Sure enough, it had her name on the front. The return address read: Douglas Rain, H.A.L. Travel.

A short while later, Root and Shaw were sitting in their favorite coffee shop and Root was emptying the envelope's contents onto the table between them.

“What's this?” asked Shaw. “Who is Douglas Rain?”

“It's The Machine,” explained Root. “She's playing travel agent, and making a '2001: A Space Odyssey' reference as well. She's so clever sometimes.”

“That's not the word I'd use,” said Shaw, sipping her coffee and looking warily at the plane tickets and other documents spread out on the table. There were two of everything. It was a trip for two.

“Are we ready for this?” Shaw asked, as Root's eyes met hers.

“Only one way to find out,” came the answer. “Ever been to Capri?”

Shaw blinked twice and leaned back in her chair. She folded her arms in front of her, then scratched her chin with her thumb.

“I have nothing to read on the plane,” she said, as if that was going to get her out of it. Root just smiled.

“You can borrow my book," she said, passing Shaw her dog-eared copy of Lewis Carroll stories. “I always keep it with me.”

THE END

//////////

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this story. I so love Root. And Shaw. And Root and Shaw. Long may they kick ass. This story is also about memory and how it can affect us emotionally, for better or worse. Maybe it's because I've been de-cluttering and throwing out old letters, cards, documents, etc. Some things are easy to toss out because I'd rather forget them (and the people they are from). Other things, I never want to forget. And in a way, that's part of the reason I write. So I don't forget.
> 
> Some exquisitely written books, if you want to read more about life, memory and the passing of time: 
> 
> The Blind Assassin by Margaret Atwood (Awesome story-in-a-story construct with some poignant insights about loss and regret.)
> 
>   
> Speak Memory by Vladimir Nabokov (Simply one of the finest autobiographies ever.)
> 
>   
> Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh (I wept when I read the last few chapters. I'm weeping now, just thinking about it.)
> 
>   
> And ... if you are interested in stories about the government spying on entertainers and activists, check out a documentary called "ReMastered: The Two Killings of Sam Cooke." It might still be on Netflix. - ZT


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